


the cure to growing older

by horriblekids



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Soulmate-Identifying Timers, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 09:43:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2343938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horriblekids/pseuds/horriblekids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He dyes his hair.<br/>Not, like, because of the soul mate thing. He doesn’t want it to come off like he’s trying too hard to get them to like him or anything, ‘cause he really doesn’t care.</p><p>Or, liking your soul mate should be easy. Except it isn't. There are so many misadventures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the cure to growing older

**Author's Note:**

> All I have to say is I'm 23 and I don't know how I got sucked into this dumb band. Don't judge me.
> 
> If you liked this, follow me on tumblr [here](http://shipwrck.tumblr.com) and I'll probably... write more stuff, I don't know. Please follow me, I'm so lonely and I have no one to talk about my secret shame with. I have so many feelings about this dumb band and their stupid fondness for each other.
> 
> Also I made two playlists, if anyone wants. So here's the one for Calum and Ashton [[x](http://8tracks.com/sixmoreyears/you-don-t-have-to-worry)] and the one for Luke and Michael [[x](http://8tracks.com/sixmoreyears/i-get-a-lot-of-thoughts-in-my-head)]. Because I'm dumb and sentimental like that.

**179:17:34:58**  
  
Luke wears a wristband over his counter.  
  
Today when he woke up, it was at 179:17:41. He doesn’t even bother with the seconds; the black ink melts smoothly into the next number like clockwork - which it is - so he rarely gives it a thought. A hundred and seventy-nine days feels practically like another lifetime at this point. He’s eighteen and he just moved into his first apartment on his own and soul mates are something he doesn’t need to worry about.  
  
Well, he lives with Calum, anyway. They have a shabby two bedroom in the city with weird tile flooring. Luke didn’t have enough money to buy a new bed when he moved, so he sleeps in his same old twin bed. It doesn’t feel much like he’s an adult yet, honestly. And when he stumbles out into their living room-slash-kitchen, Calum is eating a bowl of Lucky Charms. Not exactly adults at all. Luke pours his own bowl of cereal and eats it sullenly. He feels, like, super teen-angsty.  
  
He glances at Calum, who is staring at his own wrist, spoon still poised to deliver a mouthful of sugar-laden marshmallow bits. “You okay?” he asks, nudging his roommate gently.  
  
“It stopped,” he says.  
  
And Luke pauses. Glances at Calum’s wrist again.  
  
Blank.  
  
Blank?  
  
There’s no countdown on Calum’s wrist anymore, just ugly knotted scarring where the numbers used to be. Luke sits down on the couch beside him, gingerly. They don’t have a kitchen table, or anything, so the couch gets used for pretty much everything. “It stopped,” Luke agrees. “Do you… want to talk about it?”  
  
Calum shrugs. “Not much to talk about,” he says. “My soul mate is dead.” He brushes his fingers over the scar, wincing slightly. Luke wonders if it hurts. Not just, you know, the scar, but like - he wonders if Calum felt it, if he knew exactly the moment his soul mate died, if it’s… - he pushes the thoughts aside. He fidgets with his wristband, suddenly self-conscious.  
  
They don’t say much more about it. Luke hugs Calum stiffly for a moment. “Let me know if you want to talk,” he finally decides. Underneath the soft-worn leather, his counter ticks along. He eats his Cheerios, thinks that he’s not feeling particularly cheery today.  
  
  
 **-:-:-:-**  
  
They’re supposed to be starting college today.  
  
Calum, not surprisingly, does not feel like going. Hasn’t felt like much of anything, actually, since the timer stopped. “Cal,” Luke says gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s been three months. Maybe getting out of the apartment would be good for you. You need to be around other people.”  
  
And that’s easy for Luke to say, he guesses, because Luke still has a future. His counter is still going strong. Plus Luke is tall and blonde and pleasant to be around. They don’t talk about it. Calum wishes he were dead, vaguely. He glares at Luke and his skinny jeans and pulls the covers back over his head. “I’m staying home today,” he grumbles.  
  
“Nope,” Luke tells him. “You are going to leave this apartment today. You had the summer to mope. It’s time for you to turn over a new leaf. Or whatever that saying is, I don’t know.” He makes a sort of vague, hand-waving gesture before unceremoniously yanking the covers off the bed.  
  
“Hey! What if I was naked under here?” Calum protests.  
  
Luke rolls his eyes. “You’re getting up now,” he reminds Calum. He rummages in the drawers and tosses clothing onto the bed. “Get dressed,” he says, sounding more and more like a bossy mum by the minute. Grudgingly Calum gets dressed in the jeans and t-shirt Luke got out.  
  
Five minutes later Calum’s sitting in the passenger seat of Luke’s car with a hoodie on and a travel mug of coffee in his hand. “I don’t see why you’re making me do this,” he complains. He puts his mug in the cup holder and rifles through Luke’s CD binder until he sees something he likes. Without complaint Luke puts the disc in and turns the volume up.  
  
They sing along to blink-182 for the rest of the drive to their new school.  
  
Basically Calum’s plan is to offer to walk Luke to his first lecture and then hide out in the library until it’s time to go home. He doesn’t see the point in going to class; it’s not like he’s going to learn anything, anyway, plus he doesn’t want to be in the apartment anymore either. So the library seems like the best compromise. It’s quiet, it has a cafe in the lobby and he can successfully hide out and steal the wifi there for several hours without anyone noticing.  
  
It takes a while to find an open parking spot in the student lot. Luke curses magnanimously the whole time and nearly clips the truck he ends up parking beside. “I didn’t know you knew that many swear words,” Calum says flatly.  
  
“Oh, fuck off,” Luke says, giving him a light punch on the arm. He glances at the dashboard clock and swears again. “Shit, I’m going to be late. I’ll meet up with you later, yeah?” he goes, flashing Calum a grin before jogging off toward one of the buildings.  
  
Calum pulls his sleeves down over his hands and goes into the library. He wonders, sort of, how long he can pull this off without Luke noticing. Since Luke tends to get kind of self-involved. It’s not necessarily a bad thing.  This first day, he chooses one of the plush leather chairs at the back of the third floor and sets up his laptop. He browses Tumblr for a while before getting bored of that. It’s already half past one when he checks the time on his phone, though.  
  
Only three more hours to go. He’s going to need more coffee.  
  
  
 **/VOID/**  
  
The canister of whipped topping runs out, naturally, as soon as the cafe starts to get busy. Ashton swears under his breath and bends over to get another out of the small fridge under the counter. It will only take him a second to open the new one - just grab the little plastic tab, rip, and pull the top off. He’s done it a thousand times before. At this point his job is another basic function of his life - eat, sleep, breathe, make coffee for bratty college students.  
  
So, of course, when he stands up he smacks his head.  
  
“Jesus Christ,” he groans, rubbing the back of his now-tender head. “I mean, hi, sorry, uh…”  
  
The boy at the head of the line shrugs and tries to stifle a laugh. “Like, I know I’m great,” he says, “but I’m not that great. Are you okay?” He’s got fluffy dark hair and big puppy-dog eyes. Ashton nods. The kid orders his coffee - a large dark roast with a shot of espresso, two creams and five sugars.  
  
“Can I get your name?” Ashton asks, marker already poised to mark it down and pass it along to his coworker.  
  
He looks confused for a minute. “Oh, for the - Yeah, it’s Calum.” And Ashton writes it down and that’s that.  
  
There isn’t enough time in the day to try and flirt with every sad-eyed teenager who comes into his place of employment. By the time his shift is up he’s forgotten all about Calum and his sad eyes. He’s more interested in changing out of his coffee-stained white t-shirt and taking a shower. Unfortunately, it takes him twenty-five minutes and two buses to get back to the house he shares with his best friend.  
  
When he gets home, the first thing Michael says to him is “I’ve decided I’m going to say fuck this whole soul mate thing, man. You’re lucky you don’t have to worry about it.” It’s… a bit hard to take him seriously when he says stuff like that, especially since he’s currently got a head full of bleach. Ashton glances at the timer on Michael’s wrist. 86:14:52:11. Michael continues on his rant. “… And, like, what if you don’t even like the person? What then? Do you say fuck it and stay with them anyway, because some… fuckin’ thing decided it for you? Like, all this soul mate shit is circumstantial. What if my soul mate is on the other side of the friggin’ world and someone else just happens to time out at the same moment as me here but they’re not, you know, the one?”  
  
“I think you’re taking this a little bit too seriously,” Ashton goes. He feels a bit surly towards his roommate-cum-brother, although less so after Michael chucks a takeout bag at his chest.  
  
Michael stares at Ashton’s unmarked wrist unhappily. “You could just choose to be with anyone you want and you’re squandering it! Squandering it!”  
  
It’s still just as hard to take him seriously an hour later, once he’s washed the pink dye out that he put over top of the bleach. He flounces into the living room proudly with his hair all fluffed up. “Does this look punk?” he asks. He looks at his reflection in the mirror over the back of the couch, posing. “I think this looks very punk.” He’s wearing faded plaid pajama bottoms and no shirt. It’s not as punk as he thinks it is.  
  
Still, Ashton sighs and goes, “Yes, Mikey, you’re super punk rock.” And then he picks all the broccoli out of his beef and broccoli dish, because fuck you, broccoli is disgusting. They play Mario Kart for a while on the N64 his mom dug up in the basement last spring, which they hooked up to Michael’s equally as ancient television. Idly Ashton wonders what it would be like, having a soul mate. He rubs his thumb over the bare skin of his wrist thoughtfully.  
  
They know a couple of people who have met their soul mates already. Alex and Jack, down the street, who have been together for ages. There’s Harry from his economics class, too, although Harry dithers about it so much Ashton is convinced that he’s never going to settle down with his. Michael changes his mind every other week on how he feels about it; he’s currently in a deep funk about it. And then Ashton is… alone in the world, kind of.  
  
He was just born without a counter.  
  
It happens, rarely. No one talked about it until he was maybe four or five years old, when kids on the playground would start to compare their numbers. Ashton felt left out, not having one. For a while he tried to fake having one - a counter, that is - by writing random numbers on his wrist. In retrospect he realizes that everyone could see through his ruse. But at seven, he thought he was a freaking genius, okay. And then once kids started pairing off in the middle grades he started thinking that it was cool, not having that pressure to find one specific person.  
  
  
 **91:22:49:03**  
  
The sun is shining when he wakes up. “Oh, fuck you, sun,” he grumbles.  
  
And his pillow is stained with pink dye. Fuck. With a superhuman effort he detaches himself from his bed to wander downstairs in search of food. And Ashton, probably, but then again Ashton is probably at work. He finds an empty house and leftover pizza in the refrigerator. When did we order pizza last, he wonders. It passes the sniff test, though, and tastes passably like actual pizza. He washes it down with a can of energy drink. Not that he needs it, but like. The only other drink they have is orange juice. And it’s the kind with pulp in it, so.  
  
Michael has actually got nothing to do today. He considers sitting in bed masturbating all day, but feels weirdly dirty about it. His phone has several unread text messages from Alex. Does he feel like hanging out with Alex today? Does he feel like setting himself on fire because life is so fucking boring and pointless?  
  
In the end, he decides on playing his guitar badly and trying to learn songs off of YouTube.  
  
Alex shows up anyway. He has this habit of letting himself in unannounced. “Go away,” Michael tells him. “I am stagnating in my own filth.”  
  
And Alex rolls his eyes. “I’m bored,” he says, flopping down on the other couch. For a while they fuck around on Michael’s guitars, nothing serious, and it almost makes the day worth it. The only things either of them know how to play are basically the same three chords over again, anyway. And so the afternoon devolves into the same old bullshit: playing video games in his underwear and, later, drinking the beers that Jack brings over when he comes.  
  
They’re playing some other stupid racing game - and it’s always the fucking car games, Michael thinks - when Ashton finally comes home. “I hate my job,” Ashton proclaims, shucking off his shirt. He glances at his reflection, runs his fingers through his curly hair, and shakes his head. “I hate college kids. They’re so - fuck.”  
  
“You could always drop out,” Alex suggests.  
  
Ashton flips the three of them off and stomps up to his bedroom. Nobody gives a shit. This is a bi-weekly occurrence with him. He’s determined as hell to finish out his degree but he can’t afford to stop working during the school year, so inevitably some stupid kid pisses him off and he has a meltdown about it. Not that, like, Michael’s judging him or anything. It’s just… the ones who don’t have a soul mate do tend to get a bit more… emotional.  
  
Michael tries not to think about the pamphlets in the free clinic he went to that one time. The ones with RISK FACTORS emblazoned across the top, OF LOSING YOUR SOUL MATE. Tries not to think about the 75% rate of suicides before 25 in persons born without a soul mate. Ashton is, like, his best friend in the entire world. And yes, maybe it is annoying having Ashton’s mum call and check on him, but the alternative mostly sucks. Sometimes he looks at himself in the mirror when he get too depressed and thinks about Ashton and asks himself, “What’s your excuse, then?”  
  
Because this whole being confused and depressed about his soul mate thing sucks.  
  
Plus, who the hell is he even going to meet? Some stupid college kid? He doesn’t even want a soul mate, at this point. He’s kind of planning on going out in some blaze of glory or half-cocked plan. There’s not a whole lot of point to life. Basically his entire existence revolves around gigs, masturbation and dyeing his hair weird colors. All his friends are ancient - they’re all, like, in their mid-twenties - or they’re Ashton, who could give less of a shit about love and relationships. Michael’s well fucked if he doesn’t figure this out in the next three months. He doesn’t want to be stuck with some person for all eternity who he might not even like.  
  
  
 **-:-:-:-**  
  
For a month and a half, Calum successfully avoids going to class.  
  
He mostly browses Tumblr, with a side of reading some web comics and, if he gets really bored, he reads some of the novels in the fiction section of the library. Usually he gets one or two coffees, and then once Luke is done with class he pretends like he’s been super busy all day. It goes like that up until his whole plan goes to hell. And it’s stupid, because it starts out the same way as every other day. He checks off each of his mental check boxes right up until four p.m. Then, he goes to the parking lot to meet Luke at his car. He’s feeling a bit out of it. The line at the cafe was too long so he hasn’t had any caffeine and he is definitely starting to feel the effects.  
  
He’s walking across the south parking lot when it happens. He can see Luke waiting by the car, playing with his phone.  
  
Someone behind him says, “Hey, no coffee today?”  
  
Calum turns around. It’s the guy from the cafe who usually takes his order. “Yeah, no,” he shrugs. “Had… stuff, you know?” It’s uncomfortable, seeing the coffee guy out of his usual habitat. His stomach feels all jumbled. The coffee guy smiles at him. Calum wants to sink into the ground. He hates it when people smile at him. It’s like they know he’s defective, somehow. Not that they know why - it’s just that general feeling that people pity him, like. He pulls his sleeves down and balls them up in his fists.  
  
“Well, maybe tomorrow then,” the guy says. He’s still wearing his name tag, proudly stating that his name is ASHTON I. and he likes to drink STRAWBERRY FRAPPUCINO. Somehow Calum doubts that that last part is truthful, but. He’s trying not to care. And so he says sure, trying to remain nonchalant.  
  
He gets into the car and locks his door. “That was the worst,” he says.  
  
Luke stares at him. “What was?”  
  
“I… ran into somebody I know. Can we go now?” He’s not looking in the rearview mirror to make sure Ashton can’t see him. He’s not! He’s definitely not trying to become part of the upholstery. Well, maybe. But only so he doesn’t die of embarrassment.  
  
He’s not expecting Luke to go, “Oh, Ashton? I didn’t know you knew him. He’s in my intro to astronomy tutorial.” He’s not expecting Luke to get out of the effing car to go say hi - but of course Luke knows him. It’s physically impossible for someone not to like Luke Hemmings once they’ve met him. He’s like the human embodiment of sunshine. But there it is - Luke’s dragging him across the lot by his arm, and he’s trying desperately to become ethereal so he doesn’t have to do this. “Ash! Hi!” Luke says enthusiastically.  
  
And Ashton says “Hey,” back, and they do that handshake thing, and Calum has decided that he’s going to spontaneously combust.  
  
“So… how do you know each other?” Luke asks, looking back and forth between them.  
  
The back of Calum’s neck goes hot, but he has not yet accomplished spontaneous human combustion. The tips of his ears, he can feel, are turning red. “We just,” he says weakly. “I mean, who can really say how anybody meets, like, anybody?”  
  
Ashton grins broadly. “What he’s trying to say is that we’ve ran into each other at the library a few times,” he lies. Calum could kiss him for lying, honestly. Not that he would actually - it’s not like he wants to kiss Ashton specifically, but like - it’s not that he’s thinking of kissing the fucking coffee guy. “We have the, um, general college skills lecture together.”  
  
“… Really,” Luke says. He gives Calum a Look and, instantly, Calum knows that the jig, as they say, is up.  
  
“Yeah, of course,” Ashton lies, also giving Calum a different kind of look. Calum shifts uncomfortably and does the only thing he can think of to escape the situation.  
  
He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and pretends to be getting a phone call. “Mum! Yeah, hey, I was about to call you,” he mutters, walking off in the opposite direction to leave Luke and Ashton to do whatever bullshitting. When he’s out of hearing range he ducks behind some bushes and stays there until he sees Ashton walking to the bus stop across the road.  
  
“… Cal, why are you crouching behind a rosebush?” Luke asks him. “Why couldn’t you just tell me you hadn’t been going to class?” And because it’s Luke, his tone isn’t angry or judgmental. It’s concerned with a hint of disappointment.  
  
For all the reasoning he has done with himself, Calum doesn’t have a good answer. He stares at his shoes. “I didn’t want you to worry,” he says finally. He picks at the raised skin on his wrist uncomfortably. The bracelet on Luke’s wrist has slipped enough that Calum can make out the tops of his numbers. That’s enough to make his stomach turn sour. He’s always had a bit of a nervous stomach. Today is the day he ends up vomiting in a rosebush. He spends the weekend avoiding Luke.  
  
  
 **85:13:24:01**  
  
“I’m going to cut your head off,” Michael decides, mashing the buttons on his controller as his character gives chase to Ashton’s. It’s a Wednesday. He doesn’t really know why Ashton is home from school on a Wednesday and he doesn’t care - something about his job and being a terrible liar and some kid with fluffy hair - so he’s taking this opportunity to hang out in his underwear and kick his best friend’s ass at video games. While he thinks about this Ashton’s character sneaks up behind him and stabs him in the back, effectively ending the match. “Wow,” he says deadpan, “You’re an asshole.”  
  
Ashton reaches over him for another beer. “I’m just saying, like, I feel bad that I might have messed up that kid’s life or whatever, you know?”  
  
“Seriously dude, I don’t think anyone puts that much thought into it.”  
  
But Ashton remains serious about it. “Wouldn’t you feel bad if you embarrassed someone in front of their friend-boyfriend-guy thing?” This is the point when Michael knows - fuckin’ knows - that Ashton is overreacting. He punches him in the stomach and curses under his breath. Fuckin’ Irwin. And he allows himself a brief moment of fondness for the overreaction, because it’s just so… y’know, Ashton-y. Mostly he pushes those soft, affectionate feelings aside. Feelings are not punk rock. They go another few rounds before he grows bored and wanders off to do… something.  
  
In the end he decides to lie on his bed and play his guitar.  
  
He thinks he’s having an existential crisis. Lately he’s been feeling kind of torn about the whole soul mate thing. In talking to Alex about it - because Alex is the only person he knows who will get all fucking, like, sentimental and talk about his feelings - he’s decided that he’s going to stay inside for the rest of his life. That way he’ll never have to meet his soul mate, so he can’t be disappointed with whoever he gets. God, and thinking about it that way makes it sound like getting a soul mate is the equivalent to contracting herpes. To be honest he would rather the herpes.  
  
… At least that way he’d be getting laid.  
  
Which, like, Michael doesn’t even know why he bothers not sleeping around. He feels this irritating fucking sense of obligation to someone he’s never even met to not sleep with random strangers. And if he has his way about it, he’ll never meet his soul mate, because he is going to actively avoid it. Then - after his counter runs out - he’s going to sleep with whoever the fuck he wants. It won’t even matter. Feelings don’t need to factor into it.  
  
“Dude,” Ashton says to him later.  
  
“How kind of you to darken my doorway,” Michael sighs. Because he actually is leaning in the doorway. “What do you want?”  
  
Ashton squints at him and his guitar. “You’re always in here just, like, playing your guitar and whatever. Why don’t you try to form a band or something? Get out of the house?” Michael feels irrationally annoyed by this. It’s not Ashton’s fault. He doesn’t know about the plan. But, also, the effort required to explain the plan and then argue its merits to Ashton is exhausting, so. Fuck. How can he get out of this?  
  
It’s at this point that he decides he needs to start sucking. At playing guitar.  
  
Which he demonstrates by playing a couple of angry chords and going, “But I suck. See? Sucking.”  
  
Ashton laughs and goes downstairs. He’s making noise, doing normal things, but Michael can’t help but wonder what it’s like not to have to worry about all this stuff. Killing himself doesn’t seem like a viable option at this point. He likes pizza and Netflix too much. So that’s why, when he hears Ashton tapping away on things absentmindedly, he does not think about the fact that they could totally form a band together. He doesn’t need a band. He doesn’t need a drummer. Fuck everything. “Fuck!” he screams, angry.  
  
  
 **/VOID/**  
  
So Ashton doesn’t mean to be a creeper. He doesn’t. He’s just at the library - obviously, that’s where he works - and he conveniently… doesn’t have to work today. It would be totally normal for him to be there, though, and no one needs to know that he’s not there to work. Everything is normal. Super normal.  
  
You know, except for the part where he chickened out on his original plan and is now hiding behind a bookshelf staring at Calum through a gap in the books.  
  
Yeah, that’s normal.  
  
He’s rethinking his original plan to make up for the whole humiliating Calum in front of his soul mate thing when everything goes to shit. “Uh, hey,” Calum says, peering at him from the other side of the shelf. “Are you just… standing there staring creepily?” And he comes around to the other side, because Ashton’s day could not possibly get any worse. Like… It’s not that he doesn’t want to apologize. He does. In the whole planning stage, though, he forgot to factor in two things. One: Calum’s actually, you know, kind of attractive. And two: he’s really, really socially awkward.  
  
The third, however unspoken, factor - of course - is that Calum is Luke’s soul mate. Which is unspeakably awful. He’s awful. He’s not supposed to have a crush on someone else’s soul mate. So he goes, “Um,” and shrugs one shoulder. “I was just… you know.”  
  
“Sure,” Calum says. “About the other day…” They both say, “I can explain,” at the same time, then “You go first.”  
  
Finally, Ashton says something. “I wasn’t trying to, like, make trouble between you and Luke. You just seemed kind of stressed out and I didn’t want you guys to fight. Or whatever. ‘Cause like, obviously, who wants to fight with their soul mate? Wow.” He laughs awkwardly and wishes he’d just stayed home.  
  
Calum’s like, “Oh.” And then says, “Luke and I aren’t… We’re not… Um, my soul mate died.”  
  
Ashton deeply considers removing his shoe and shoving it in his mouth. Without thinking he goes, “Wow, I’m an asshole.”  
  
“So… yeah. I’ve been kind of skipping class ‘cause, like, what’s the point? And I didn’t want Luke to know because then he’d get all worried and he’s supposed to time out in, like, three months, and who wants to add to that stress? Except now he knows so I have to avoid him forever so the only place I can be is here.” Calum looks anxious. He fidgets a lot; it’s something Ashton has noticed over the last couple of months. Not that he’s been, you know, noticing. A lot. Okay, so he has - but he feels less bad about it now that he knows Luke and Calum aren’t… Well, he feels better and worse.  
  
“… I don’t have one.”  
  
Calum raises an eyebrow. “Like, at all?”  
  
“Yep.” He shows Calum his bare wrist. Slowly, Calum pulls his sleeve up to show a thin, raised line on his.  
  
“Well, damn. Now I don’t know which one of us needs a hug more,” Calum jokes. He lets out a sigh of relief. “You know, you’re the only person who knows besides Luke. I haven’t even told my parents yet. Are you, uh, working today?” When Ashton shakes his head, he smiles a little - just the corners of his lips turn up - and invites Ashton to sit down. They sit in an amiable silence for a while, each on their own laptop. It’s not bad. After a while Calum goes, “I was serious about the hug, you know. If you ever need it.” Without asking he snatches Ashton’s phone and adds his own number to the contacts list. Then, he calls his own phone.  
  
Ashton slides Calum’s phone across the table and takes a selfie to add to his contact page on Calum’s phone. “So you don’t forget my ugly mug,” he explains. Calum chuckles indulgently. He could definitely get used to this, he thinks, making Calum laugh. Time goes by so fast he barely realizes he’s got a class. “So I actually have a class now,” he sighs. “But we should totally hang out again. If that’s not weird. I… had a really good time, actually.”  
  
“It is a little weird,” Calum agrees.  
  
He wonders if it’s weird, on his way to class, to have a crush on someone if their soul mate is dead. That’s probably inappropriate. The sense of relief he felt at Calum’s scar definitely makes him kind of a bad person. But how bad exactly does it make him if he wants to make Calum smile though? Does each smile erase some of the debt of terribleness he inherited at having a dumb crush?  
  
  
 **59:04:22:18**  
  
Luke thinks that finals are an accurate depiction of what hell feels like. He goes to the library with Calum under the guise of studying, claiming that a change of scenery will help him learn. Actually what he’s doing is surveilling. He needs to know who this person Calum keeps texting is - the one that makes him giggle and smile and cover his face - and he needs to figure out what to do about it. Because he knows what this mean. It’s not like it’s the first time Calum has ever had a crush on someone. It’s just… This time, after everything with the loss of his soul mate, Luke needs to make sure he can’t get hurt. He can’t let his best friend get hurt again.  
  
So instead of studying he’s discreetly glaring at every single person in the library. Which turns out to be quite a lot, actually, because it’s finals and everyone is cramming.  
  
“Why did we come here if you are not actually going to study, Lucas?” Calum asks.  
  
Luke taps his pen on his notebook. “I am studying,” he retorts. “Look. I’m writing stuff down.” He makes a point of writing down some information from the textbook. It’s true that he has been distracted lately. When it hasn’t been classes or finals, it’s been his counter; there are two months left until he meets his soul mate and he’s terrified. Mostly he’s worried about Calum. He doesn’t want the bubble to pop. He’s been so happy since he started texting… whoever. The last thing Luke wants is for Calum to be let down when whoever meets their soul mate. He doesn’t even want to entertain the other option.  
  
“We need coffee,” Calum says. “If you’re planning to pull an all-nighter you’re going to need caffeine.” He goes down to the cafe in the lobby and comes back with two large coffees and a huge grin on his face. Luke presses his lips together. Maybe it’s better not to ask. Brightly, he says, “Ash said he would come join us after his shift ends. You don’t mind, do you?”  
  
“Of course not. Great guy, that Ashton.”  
  
He curses under his breath. How is he supposed to surveil anything with Ashton there? Ugh. The next hour passes slowly, with Luke discreetly trying to peer at everyone who passed by and watching for Calum’s reactions to them. When he’s not trying to figure out who Calum has a crush on he’s quietly freaking out about his counter timing out. It’s going to happen so soon. It could be anyone; his soul mate could be anyone. What if it’s someone awful?  
  
“I come bearing gifts,” Ashton says when he shows up, carrying a tray of coffees and a box of doughnuts. “I figured you guys could use sustenance.” He beams at them and sits down in the unoccupied chair beside Calum. Luke is grateful for the coffee - he’s been awake for so long he’s starting to forget what day it is. After a while Ashton and Calum stop taking anything seriously and instead dick about on their laptops. “Hey, what’s up with grumpy over there?” Ashton asks Calum inconspicuously.  
  
Before Luke can answer, Calum does for him. “He’s stressing out about his counter. It’s going to time out soon and he’s freaking out about it.” Luke scrunches his face up and reaches for another doughnut.  
  
They exchange a conspicuous look. “Well, at least you and I don’t need to worry about that,” Ashton goes. His phone chimes and he checks his texts with a pained look on his face. “Ugh,” he groans. “My ball and chain.” Luke gives him a sympathetic look and continues studying. Or, rather, trying to study. There’s only so much he can do when he’s been awake for - he glances at his wrist - twenty-eight hours and counting. He’s going to fail his final in the morning. It’s four in the morning when they leave, and his final starts at eight.  
  
“I’m so fucked,” he complains to Calum and Ashton. “Hey, do you want a ride?” he says, to Ashton.  
  
“That would be awesome, actually.” They all three pile into Luke’s car, Ashton giving directions to his house. And imagine: living in a house as a student instead of the cardboard box he and Calum currently occupy. Maybe if Ashton turns out to be a legitimate dude they will ask him to move in with them at the end of the year. At any rate, he makes another joke about his soul mate and climbs over Calum to get out of the car before wishing them both a good night. He’s too exhausted to think about anything other than getting a couple hours of sleep before his final.  
  
Before they can drive off, though, he gets this queer feeling in his chest. It feels like someone squeezed all the air out of his lungs and replaced them with lead balloons. He exhales slowly, trying to get himself under control. There’s no reason for him to feel like this. “Dude, I think I’m having a panic attack,” he says.  
  
Calum pats his knee. “Remember what your therapist said,” he says in a gentle voice. Luke grasps his hand and squeezes it tightly. They drive home at a snail’s pace. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him - maybe it’s overtiredness, maybe it’s all the coffee he had - but he ends up tossing and turning for two hours. Before he leaves the house he downs an entire Red Bull. Somehow, he thinks he didn’t do very well on the final.  
  
  
 **55:16:29:41**  
  
Michael stares despairingly at his counter, wondering idly if he could just… carve it out somehow.  
  
Not that he loves the whole self-deprecating self-injury schtick, but if it gets him out of a relationship of indentured servitude, he’ll butcher the hell out of his arm. He’s taken all of the pillows and blankets in the house and made himself a fort in the living room. No soul mates allowed. Except for, like, Jack and Alex. But that’s only because they practically came out of the womb married. They’re disgusting, together. So he and Jack and Alex are in the fort with a case of beer and Jackass on DVD. He’s got his head in Alex’s lap and Alex’s fucking daddy long-legs limbs are sprawled out over Jack.  
  
“Do you guys think I could avoid my soul mate if I fled the country?” he asks idly.  
  
Alex twists a couple strands of his hair around his fingers. “I don’t think it works that way, bro,” Alex says. Michael’s hair is lavender now; he’d gotten tired of the pink after it faded and he wants to go blue next, so lavender seemed like a good halfway point.  
  
“You’re basically fucked,” Jack tells him.  
  
He sinks further down into the nest of blankets they’ve built. “I need another beer,” he says weakly. Jack dutifully hands him another beer and takes the top off for him. It’s slightly warm, but that doesn’t matter. He’s gonna have to learn to take the piss if he is well and truly fucked into having this soul mate thing happen. What a bleak goddamn outlook on life. At some point Ashton comes home grinning like a fucking moron, climbs into the fort with them. He cuddles up to Michael’s side. “I’m gonna die,” Michael tells him.  
  
“It’s not that bad, Mikey,” Ashton tells him, rubbing the back of his palm over the counter.  
  
“That’s easy for you to say,” he says grumpily. “You don’t have a fuckin’ death sentence hanging over your head.”  
  
Of course Ashton’s not paying attention, though. He’s basically got his phone up his ass these days, texting some guy he met at school. Lucky him. He can just fuck the kid and get it over with; he doesn’t need to worry about any semantic love bullshit or anything like that - he’s basically got a guilt-free guarantee that no one is going to show up on his doorstep claiming to be soul mates. Well, they share a doorstep. It’s the same doorstep. It doesn’t matter.  
  
Eventually they change the DVD out for some other stupid thing; Michael thinks it’s one of the American Pie franchise but he doesn’t care enough to, like, check. Alex makes a good pillow and it’s warm inside the fort. He’s decided that he’s just going to live in it until this whole soul mate thing blows over. The four of them fall asleep like that - just draped over each other, comfortable - and Michael thinks that bringing another person into it will fuck up their whole dynamic. “I love you guys,” he mumbles sleepily. Someone rubs his shoulder.  
  
In the morning Ashton is glued to his phone again.  
  
Michael plucks it from his hand and peers at the little screen. “Who’s… Calum?” he asks. He’s nothing if not a nosy bitch. “That your fuck buddy?” He grabs a handful of cereal out of the box and shoves it in his mouth. Ashton gives him a horrible look.  
  
“Not that it’s any of your business, asshole,” Ashton bitches, “but he’s my friend. You know? That thing people do where they’re nice to each other and have common interests?” He glares once more before returning to his phone. And Michael knows that look; that’s the ‘I’m trying very hard to deny that I have a crush on someone’ face. He hopes he never looks like that. He’d fuckin’ punch himself in the face if he ever got like that. Or, like, he hopes someone else would do the punching for him. What a stupid dick.  
  
“The only common interest you have is wanting his cock in your mouth,” he bitches back.  
  
He’s un-fuckwith-able. He’s in a bad mood. He’s out of cigarettes. His counter keeps ticking along like nothing’s even happening, but he already knows. Ashton’s in love. And wow, this is actually terrible. He has to do something to stop it. But in, like, a super passive way. Instead of saying anything he shovels another handful of cereal into his mouth. Fuck bowls. So he spends the rest of the day being terrible at guitar - which is actually pretty enjoyable. He considers getting a cell phone so he could text Ashton mean things when he’s hanging out with what’s-his-face. Then again, having a house phone is annoying as fuck. Why would anyone give themselves the ability to have strangers call them everywhere they go?  
  
Michael spends the afternoon watching daytime talk shows. He’s making a list of pros and cons in his head to getting the cell phone, still, and he’s mostly resolved to getting one. He’s thought about it. And while he’s thinking about things he’s unhappy about, at the top of the list is some little fuckin’, like, college boy trying to steal his best friend. Fuck Calum, whoever he is.  
  
  
 **-:-:-:-**  
  
It’s a natural progression for them to go from hanging out at the library to just… regular hanging out. And that makes Calum nervous for a number of reasons, but mostly it’s the fact that he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to have a crush on Ashton or not. Maybe it’s disrespectful to his soul mate. He doesn’t want to be disrespectful. But, on the other hand, Ashton has a really nice smile. He’s got nice eyes. He’s got curly hair and Calum wants to touch it, to see if it actually is as soft as it looks. And it’s that last part that keeps getting him; he keeps thinking about and then not-thinking about kissing Ashton and running his fingers through that hair.  
  
He’s lying on the couch playing Skyrim when he finally asks Luke. “Hey, do you think it would be, like, disrespectful to my soul mate if I went out with somebody else?” And his character kills a dragon by shooting it with flaming arrows, which is pretty cool.  
  
Luke glances at him over the top of a thick, heavy textbook. It’s for his anatomy lab. “I don’t know. Probably not. Like, it’s shitty to say, but they would want you to be happy even if they weren’t around, right? So I think it’s probably okay. Why? You have a crush on someone?” And Luke fiddles with his new lip ring - he’s just got it done last week, so it’s still a bit novel - and looks at him with huge eyes.  
  
“I don’t know if it’s a crush,” he says. “I just like being around them and stuff.”  
  
He feels a bit nervous, talking about it out loud. But Luke just shrugs it off and goes back to studying. He’s been swearing up and down about turning over a new leaf, or whatever, so apparently that means becoming a bit neurotic and studying constantly. Calum’s been not-dealing with the whole school situation brilliantly. He spends the morning playing video games, goes to the library over lunch to hang out with Ashton, and has dinner with Luke on campus. The meal plan is paid for, so it seems pointless not to use it. Over the break he’s gotten his first tattoo on his collarbone. Him and Luke had gone on the same day, but Luke chickened out on the tattoo portion after watching Calum’s get done and so he got his lip pierced instead.  
  
“Mate,” Luke says very seriously over dinner. “When are you going to tell your mum about the school thing?”  
  
He just stares at his food. “I was kind of planning on never telling her,” he admits. “I figured I could just, like, get a job or something.”  
  
Luke shakes his head. “Cal… That’s cool and all, but what exactly are you planning on doing? We’re eighteen; it’s not like we have any skills.” And he’s saying it in his completely non-condescending Luke way, which somehow always manages to make him feel more shit. He draws a smiley face on his burger with the ketchup.  
  
“I dunno, I can draw pretty alright. Maybe I’ll do tattoos or something. The world is my oyster, and all that shit.” He shrugs. If he just doesn’t say anything else, he knows Luke will let the subject drop. That’s the thing about Luke: he means well, but he’s not that assertive. It’s been months and he’s only just starting to relax around Ashton when they hang out now. Calum has no idea how he’s going to react when he meets his soul mate. It will, undoubtedly, be awkwardly hilarious.  
  
“Hey, mates,” Ashton says when he swings by during his break between classes. Calum’s stomach does flip-flops. He pats Calum on the shoulder and slides into the booth next to Luke before he snatches a fry off Calum’s plate. “Hope you don’t mind. Starving.” Not surprisingly, Calum has lost his appetite.  
  
“Nah, man,” Calum replies, trying to seem cool and nonchalant. “Go for it.” Luke shoots him a Look over the table. He knows they’re going to have a talk later. Right now he’s kind of distracted by Ashton’s fucking hair. He’s wearing this stupid bandana thing and it’s ridiculously distracting. Also, kind of hot. This is going to become a problem. He realizes that he hasn’t been listening to the conversation going on at all; he’s just been staring at Ashton’s mouth. Both of them - Ashton and Luke - are looking at him, clearly expecting a response. “Sorry, guys. I totally zoned out,” he says sheepishly.  
  
Ashton barely suppresses a grin. “I was just asking if you wanted to come back to mine for a bit. We could fuck around on the guitars a bit if you like.”  
  
“Uh, yeah. Sure.” The plans are made; Calum sits in the library until Ashton finishes classes, messing around on Tumblr. Luke texts him a lame and thinly-veiled excuse to get out of going; he may be naggy, but Luke is a right friend in situations like these. Admittedly he is a bit nervous. This is uncharted territory. He uses the webcam on his laptop to make faces at himself and makes a valiant - albeit fruitless - attempt at flattening his hair down a bit. All told, he feels a bit stupid when Ashton picks him up at the front doors to the library. “Hey,” he says, feeling himself grin stupidly.  
  
“Hey yourself,” Ashton says back, bumping his shoulder into Calum’s. They walk side by side the short distance to the bus shelter. “I hope you don’t mind taking the bus. I’m trying to save up for a car, but my roommate is… Uh, less than helpful in that regard.”  
  
Having been texted about this particular subject plenty of times in the middle of the night, Calum replies, “So basically Michael’s being a twat about it.”  
  
“Brace yourself for it. He’s been in a foul mood lately.” The bus pulls up to the curb, loud and smelly, and Ashton pays for both of them to get on the bus. The first half of the trip is quick - the bus is barely occupied so they can sit down. After they get off the first one and transfer to another, more crowded bus, they have to stand. Calum hasn’t really ever had to take public transit before. “Here,” Ashton says, linking arms with him. And Calum very deliberately does not think about Ashton’s arm muscles; he doesn’t think about the way he can see those muscles flex ever-so-slightly every time the bus goes over a bump.  
  
He’s so fucked. The bus shakes as it rounds a corner and he stumbles, falling against Ashton’s chest. It’s a goddamn romantic comedy, his life.  
  
  
 **47:01:26:53**  
  
Love is disgusting.  
  
Michael wakes up, and he can’t even go downstairs in his fucking underwear, because Ashton’s new whatever is asleep on the couch. And it’s much to his chagrin that they actually are not fucking. So, clothes. He pulls on the first pair of jeans he can find and throws one of Ashton’s flannels over his t-shirt. Lately he’s taking the approach that if he annoys the whatever, he’ll eventually get the idea and go away on his own. It’s a smashing failure so far. He goes into the kitchen and discovers that his cereal is in the fucking cupboard. That’s just… That is, that’s not okay.  
  
“Why the fuck is the cereal in the cupboard?” he asks the lump on the couch.  
  
“Why are you so angry? Jesus,” the lump says back. “Also, because that’s where cereal goes.”  
  
Michael huffs and puts his hands on his hips. “But that’s not where my cereal goes,” he bitches, shoving his hand into the box. He crunches his cereal bits angrily and stares at the - what is his name? Caleb? Coriander? It’s one of those - and waits for him to wither. Frustrated, he goes, “This is the part where you wither under my gaze and leave me alone forever.”  
  
The lump glares at him. “It’s a little hard to take you seriously when your hair is that color,” he says.  
  
“Fuck you,” Michael says. “It’s punk.”  
  
Ashton wanders into the living room, looks at both of them, and shakes his head. “Mikey, stop antagonizing Calum, please. And Cal… stop engaging him. It just encourages him to be an asshole.” He flops down on the couch next to the lump - Calum - happily, completely oblivious to the fact that they were both ruining Michael’s life. Michael sits down on the other couch and eats his cereal silently. The blanket fort was short-lived; it caved in one day and no one had cared enough to fix it. Plus he hasn’t exactly been in a giving mood recently, no thanks to Calum’s repeated presence in his fuckin’ house.  
  
It wouldn’t be so bad if they would at least admit that they have feelings for each other, he thinks. Which, like, gross - but at least then he wouldn’t have to sit around and watch them pining all the time. It’s sickening how goddamn happy they both look about it. Just sitting there with their knees barely touching and they’re, like, the happiest people in the world. He should tell them; he would tell them, if he thought it wouldn’t wreck everything. It’s very conflicting, having all these different thoughts at the same time. But at the core of it Michael does want Ashton to be happy.  
  
After his cereal he goes back up to suck at the guitar some more.  
  
Later he smokes a cigarette with Alex and decides he’s not going to hate Calum anymore. “I think Ash is in love,” he tells Alex, grimly. One of Alex’s eyebrows twitches. “It’s not so bad, I guess,” he says. Maybe he’s finally reached that zen-like state of anger everyone always talks about. He considers it, lights another cigarette, and changes the channel on the TV. Alex rubs the top of his head, half-affectionate, and they mellow in the afternoon sun.  
  
“Do you think there’s such thing as platonic soul mates?” he asks seriously.  
  
Alex is petting his hair absently. They’re waiting for Jack; he’s bringing tacos or whatever. “Probably.” Jack shows up with tacos and beer. Michael’s like halfway to buzzed by the time Ashton comes in, sans Calum. It’s almost like old times, in a way. They put Shameless on the TV and Michael tries hard not to think about how the show, like, relates to his own life. He’d probably be Mickey Milkovich if he weren’t so fucking lazy.  
  
When everyone else has passed out and he’s up in his own room, he thinks about it. He might actually be depressed. Which is quite shit, if you really think about it, since he’s in the least likely demographic to develop depression and yet here he is, lying in his bed thinking about depressing things. It’s just, like, he doesn’t feel things right. Or maybe he does and the world is just depressing. Either way he’s so fucking tired of everything, all the time. And it sucks because he actually has a pretty good life. His parents pay for, like, the bare minimum amount of stuff - which is still pretty good - and Ashton doesn’t ride his ass about, like, the future.  
  
He’s alone in the house the next day and it starts getting to him. Like, he’s sitting on the toilet having his morning constitutional and it just. He’s thinking about all the shit he wants to do and it’s so completely overwhelming. The thought of doing anything is exhausting. So maybe he’s out of his mind because the next thing he does that morning is painstakingly break apart a razor. Before he has time to think about what he’s doing he’s got the blade pressed against his wrist and it’s kissing into his counter. He kind of thought it would hurt more, whatever. Whatever it is he’s doing.  
  
The worst part of it is that the counter keeps on fucking ticking. All he’s done is put a thin red line through it. “Way to make it more obvious, stupid,” he tells his reflection in the mirror. And he looks like shit too: Hair faded to an awful shade of green, sticking up at all angles; dark circles under his eyes, looking like he got the punch in the face he so sorely deserves; skin pasty and acne-ridden from too much pizza and not enough time outdoors. So that’s his life now, complete with downward spiral and shitty semantic self-harming bullshit.  
  
  
 **/VOID/**  
  
It doesn’t actually occur to him that this could be construed as a date until after they’re already on it. He’d asked Calum to go to this gig at the student pub, and Calum had said yes, and he had been so relieved by the yes that he forgot to think about… Well, anyway, they’re here now and the opening band was awful so he’s got them both a drink - mostly to calm his own nerves - and they’re just kind of standing awkwardly beside each other. It’s too loud to talk much, anyway, so Ashton settles for sipping his rum and coke and hoping his outfit doesn’t look stupid.  
  
“So I’ve actually never been here before,” Calum half-shouts in his ear. It’s necessary; the pub is packed and if many more people show up to this thing, their bodies will touch. It’s already standing room only. “This is brilliant.”  
  
Ashton laughs. “Not brilliant,” he says into Calum’s ear. “Just wait. It gets pretty mad.”  
  
He’s still nervous. The next band is some soppy pop act with a bunch of ballads about true love. It’s pretty lame. After that the next band is the headliner, so it’s pretty crowded. Calum gets shoved up against his chest; they look at each other and both laugh awkwardly. “Hey, I guess everybody’s friends tonight,” Calum jokes. And they’re pretty much the same height, with little differences - Calum’s shoulders aren’t quite so broad, he smells like body spray and nervous sweat.  
  
“Sure,” Ashton agrees. “I think they’re about to go on.” And sure enough, the lights go down and the crowd collectively holds its breath. The immensity of that shared silence weighs heavy until the lights flare up again. The throng lets out a hearty cheer; the band starts playing, and everyone dances. Well - the two of them more like sway, but the jostling from the rest of the pub pushes them close together, until his chest is pressed to Calum’s back. He doesn’t mind it that way. During the third or fourth song, the crowd really starts pushing closer. Calum, seemingly without thinking, reaches back and grabs hold of Ashton’s hand. And they just stand like that for the rest of the set.  
  
They’re very slightly buzzed when the crowd clears out, but it’s before last call by a long shot, so they claim a table and sprawl out at it with a plate of nachos to share. “This was nice,” Calum slurs. “We should do this again.”  
  
Ashton does not comment on the hand-holding but instead stares at the little scar on Calum’s wrist. “Yeah, definitely,” he agrees.  
  
He’s fixating on Calum’s tattoo again, peeking out from the collar of his shirt. All he can think is how he wants to put his mouth right there, in this pseudo-sexual way. He wants to put his mouth on Calum’s wrist, too, right over the raised bumps of his scar. They drink three more rounds of drinks. Everything is pleasantly blurred; they catch the bus back to the house falling over each other, laughing, and somehow they manage to tumble onto Ashton’s bed. “I could sleep for, like, ten million years on this bed,” Calum slurs.  
  
Ashton flops on the bed beside him. “You should stay over,” he goes, and Calum laughs. They lie in bed just talking until one - or maybe it’s both of them - fall asleep.  
  
In the morning he wakes up first. Calum’s curled up on his side, mouth soft and slack. Ashton wrestles with the covers long enough to kind of drape them over Calum and then crawls out of the bed to take a piss. Michael’s sitting in the bathtub when he goes in. “Long night with your fuck buddy?” he goes.  
  
“Oh, fuck off,” Ashton groans, pushing his jeans down his thighs enough to take a piss. In the end he decides to kick his jeans into a corner of the bathroom. They’re too tight to sleep in, anyway. He looks at Calum again when he’s climbing back into bed. This, he decides, is one of the best nights he’s had. When he gets settled Calum makes a noise in his sleep and rolls over, effectively trapping Ashton. Not that he minds, like, a bit of a drunken cuddle. Although he’s starting to sober up enough to realize now.  
  
He at least hopes Michael doesn’t fall the fuck asleep in the bathtub. Since Michael’s been a bit of an agony lately. It’s, like, eight in the morning and he wants to go back to sleep. Calum’s warm and comfortable to lie against, at least. Somewhere in there he falls asleep again and when he wakes up the second time, Calum’s already gone.  
  
Calum at least has the decency to text, though. He says thanks for the night and that they should go out again. He doesn’t specify what type of going out he means. Ashton could honestly rip his hair out trying to guess. Or is that a brush-off? God, Ashton is so fucked. He’s halfway in love with this guy. And to think he didn’t believe he could ever have, like, feelings for someone. He doesn’t even know how normal people do it. How do people figure out if the person they want to be with is the one?  
  
  
 **41:22:36:01**  
  
Luke meets with his faculty advisor. To put it quite simply: he’s bombing his science courses. He’s going to have to do summer coursework if he can’t pull his grades up. The whole time he’s in the meeting with his advisor he’s groaning internally, and then he blows off his next class - which he really shouldn’t - and gets a beer at the student pub with Ashton. “I’m boned, man,” he groans, despairing of his anatomy textbook.  
  
“It can’t be that bad,” Ashton reasons. “I mean, besides the summer courses are always easier.”  
  
“Maybe,” Luke says doubtfully. There’s a football game on the big screen in the corner. They watch it with rapidly waning interest; Luke fiddles with his lip ring, still not used to the feel of it. He fidgets with his wristband. The whole counter thing has been heavy on his mind lately. It would be nice to just have it over with already. He wonders all the time what his soul mate is doing. Like, are they a guy or a girl? Do they sit up at night thinking about him too? Do they like the same stuff as him? He wonders what it will be like when they meet for the first time. Will he just know, somehow, or will it be a gradual realization? Will it hurt?  
  
The server comes round with another pitcher of beer for them. Ashton pours them both another glass, careful to pull the head of the beer into a nice thick foam. “I should become a bartender at this rate,” he goes. “Probably make more money that way.”  
  
“At least you’d get tips,” Luke tells him.  
  
“True. Anyway, try not to take things so seriously, young Luke. Everyone fails a course or two their first year of college. I failed my intro to psychology course twice, and look at me now.” Except that Ashton is a psychology major, so like. It’s a little bit different for him. He has the motivation to keep trying, whereas Luke doesn’t actually know if he wants to do this whole veterinary science thing. Most of it was his parents pushing him toward it. Sometimes he thinks he’d like to, maybe, write a book or something instead. Ashton pats him on the shoulder and pours him another glass.  
  
They both avoid talking about the elephant in the room.  
  
“So,” he goes. “How about that local sports team?” Because he’s not annoyed by the fact that Ashton pauses to text Calum, exactly. It’s this weird kind of latent jealousy mixed in with relief. Mostly he worries about what will happen if it doesn’t work out. He wants Ashton-and-Calum to happen - but not at the expense of his best friend’s already fragile mental health. Although Calum’s been better, lately. Ashton has been taking him out a bit to do things. Just, like, gigs and stuff, but it makes Calum happy. To force himself to stop thinking about it, he opens his anatomy text and does the reading for his next lecture.  
  
Ashton pinches him and goes, “You’re a workaholic.”  
  
He does not contest this fact. “No rest for the wicked, and all that.” They sit in their badly lit booth at the pub and study. After a time Ashton gets bored and amuses himself by drawing dicks in Luke’s textbook. It’s horribly endearing. Can him and Calum just get their shit sorted and date, already? Luke would not mind. He wonders, idly, if his soul mate also has best friends in a similar situation. Probably his soul mate is less uptight than he is. His soul mate probably leaves the bed unmade and lets dirty dishes sit in the sink overnight. And, like, wouldn’t that be the shit?  
  
  
 **39:15:26:45**  
  
It’s safe to say that he’s fairly freaking out. For the last couple days Michael’s had this pounding headache. He gets out of the bed in the morning and his cereal is in the fucking cupboard again - because Calum claims that’s where it goes - and he can’t even look at his cereal without his skin crawling. So he washes his hands in the sink, scrubbing all over his hands and wrists until the skin feels raw, and feels better about it. He sits in the living room and eats his cereal and he washes his hands again when he puts the box away. But he still feels dirty, so he has to do it again. And again.  
  
He doesn’t realize it’s been thirty minutes until Alex comes in and says, “You doing okay in there, bud?”  
  
“Yeah, I’m… Sorry. Must have gotten distracted.” Michael looks down at his hands. They look angry and red. The water pouring from the tap is lukewarm. He pulls the sleeves of his pajama top down and dries off. What the fuck is wrong with him? They play video games all morning. Alex keeps looking at him strangely; he’s not unfamiliar with the side-eye, fuck. “Would you stop staring at me? I’m fine, jesus christ.”  
  
Later, he’s trying to go to sleep when this feeling of impending doom settles over him. He stares at the counter on his wrist, calmly ticking away the seconds. He needs to go make sure Ashton is okay. Half-groggy, he rolls himself out of bed and goes to Ashton’s doorway to check on him. This irrational urge comes over him to touch the doorknob. His head is screaming at him. He touches the doorknob four times. Four seems like exactly the right number for some reason.  
  
“Dude, what the fuck,” Ashton grumbles sleepily, sitting up in bed to stare at him.  
  
Michael scowls and goes back to bed.  
  
In the morning he repeats the same cycle he’s been going through lately by trying to creatively remove the counter from his wrist. He uses the corner of a razor blade to rip into the 3, but all that does is cause bright red blood to bead up on his wrist and slowly leak out of his arm. Useless. The blade kisses into the skin under his counter instead. Always an even number, it has to be. After he’s put everything away and covered his arms up he washes his hands in the bathroom sink. He only means to do it once, but somehow he keeps scrubbing them until he hears the front door. It turns out to be just Calum, looking for a sweater he left behind.  
  
Michael knows this because he asks Calum, “What the fuck are you doing?”  
  
And Calum says back, “I’m looking for my Senses Fail hoodie. I thought I left it here.” Because Calum totally looks like a person who would listen to fuckin’ Senses Fail and not some random indie bullshit. Michael’s respect for him goes up just a little bit at that moment.  
  
But the good thing about his recent weirdness is that he knows where Calum’s thing is; it’s in the office, which they never use. “It’s back here,” he says, and shows Calum the office. “Also, don’t fuck this up. With Ashton. Don’t fuck this up for him. He really likes you or whatever.” He crosses his arms, because he is serious and intimidating. Calum just shrugs and puts the sweater on. Michael doesn’t mind him that much. It’s more the principle of the thing. Because eventually Calum and Ashton will do the kissing thing, and that’s gross. He’s very uncomfortable with the kissing thing and just the general idea of sex noises and bodily fluids freaks him out sometimes. He is not sure how the whole soul mate thing is going to go for that reason.  
  
“I like him, you know. Ashton.” Calum shifts uncomfortably.  
  
“How nice for you,” Michael says sarcastically.  
  
Calum shakes his head and tells him, “You’re not fooling anyone with your whole too punk for feelings thing. We all know you care. I’m not even mad that you’re a jerk, honestly. ‘Cause you are a jerk. But you have cool hair, I guess.” If he were anyone else, he would beam with pride. Since he’s not he just kind of bobs his head a little and touches his hair lightly. And Calum says ‘bye’ and heads off to… wherever he goes, Michael doesn’t know. With the house empty he plays some more guitar and sings a bit.  
  
He feels gripped, in the afternoon, by that same paralyzing fear as he had had in the night, but this time about whether the oven is on.  
  
When he checks it, it’s turned off but he moves the dial anyway to be sure. And then. He has to do it again because what if it didn’t turn off properly the first time? What if? It goes along in an endless cycle like that until he gets snapped out of it by the house phone ringing. Ashton’s mum checking in on them; she wants to know if Ashton is doing okay, if they need anything. He says groceries and maybe a bit of a holiday, for Ash, but it also occurs to him that no one ever checks to see how he’s doing.  
  
The next day his annual ‘sorry for being a shit dad’ card comes in the mail with a check. He’s pissed that his dad can’t even remember his actual fucking birthday, so he goes out and gets a tattoo. Just because. It’s just three solid bands on his arm. Then he gets trashed with Alex and Jack and bitches about his arm hurting, because it does, and they both predictably take the piss out of him for being a gigantic baby. For like twelve hours, maybe, he feels pretty okay. He doesn’t feel like he needs to do things or else something bad will happen. He even manages to fall asleep without checking anything. Seriously. Something’s wrong with him.  
  
  
 **-:-:-:-**  
  
So he’s, like, tentatively friends with Ashton’s roommate. Almost.  
  
Michael comes downstairs a week after the tattoo thing he got done looking confused. “I got this cell phone,” he says. He shoves it into Calum’s hands and sits down on the couch. “Make it work.” It’s just a normal smartphone, sleek and shiny. Calum peels the screen protector that it came with off and turns it on. The screen lights up with the default wallpaper on the lock screen. He spends the next half hour setting it up; he downloads apps for Michael and enters his own number as well as Ashton’s. And after that Michael texts him weird blurry photos of stuff in the middle of the night.  
  
“It’s his way of communicating, I guess,” Ashton tells him. They’re sprawled out on the bed - Ashton studying for his abnormal psychology test, Calum playing Angry Birds on his phone. He’s not thinking about the fact that their legs are touching. But they are and he can’t breathe - he’s just trying not to look at Ashton for too long in case, like, he thinks it’s weird. Michael sends him another photo, this time of his blurry feet on the edge of the bathtub.  
  
“What does he actually, like, do?” Calum asks.  
  
Ashton glances at him. He’s really very pretty - he’s lying on his stomach, propped up on his elbows over the laptop so his face is backlit and faintly glowing from the screen, and it makes his eyes look intense. “I dunno, he plays the guitar a bit and he sings. I keep telling him he should form a band. Get out of the house, you know?” Calum can make out the faint stubble on his chin. This is his favorite type of day - the one where Ashton wears those cut-up tank tops he’s fond of and baggy jogging bottoms - and they just laze around doing nothing. He could do this forever.  
  
For a while they continue on in silence, punctuated by the click-clacks of Ashton typing out his notes for a huge test he’s been panicking about. “Ash,” he says finally. “You know everything already. Quit panicking and just chill out, mate. Let’s go for a walk or something.” They go, and Ashton smokes a cigarette. Just one because he’s stressed, he says, and true to his word when he’s finished he snubs it out with the toe of his shoe and pockets the pack. Calum does not think about this. He carefully files it away in his brain for later. He can’t think too much about the little things Ashton does that are super attractive or he’ll do something really stupid. Right now he’s fixating on Ashton’s smooth, unmarked wrists. He wants to put his hands over them to see how they feel. Would the notch of bone in his wrist feel sharp to the touch?  
  
They’re at this playground a couple streets down. “Look, swings,” Ashton comments.  
  
“God, I feel old.” He sits in the seat of a swing, somehow remembering these things as much roomier in his childhood. Ashton gives him a little bit of a push and he kicks his legs out, swinging back and forth a few times before stuttering to a stop. “I think my legs are too long to enjoy this properly now. Remember when you were little, like, trying to go over the tops of the swing so you could fly?”  
  
“I split my chin open doing that.” Surely enough there’s a faint scar on Ashton’s chin from it. Calum wants to touch it.  
  
Eventually they climb to the top of the jungle gym to sit in the mouth of the slide together. It’s full dusk - the daylight bleeds into the horizon and above them the stars blink sleepily to life. The air cools around them, and Calum just feels a certain heaviness to the night. Ashton’s knuckles bump against his in the little hollow space between their thighs. Without thinking he links their fingers together. Neither of them says anything about it; Ashton turns his hand so it’s palm up and rubs his thumb over the side of Calum’s hand absentmindedly.  
  
“I’m sorry I get so caught up in my head sometimes,” Ashton says suddenly. He looks down at their hands and smiles fondly. “I really am having a great time hanging out with you though. So like. In case you didn’t know that.”  
  
“Cool,” Calum says back. Ashton bumps their knees together. He pulls his phone out to take a selfie to send to Michael; Ashton grabs it - longer arms and all - and crowds in close to get in the frame. Calum pulls some awful face and watches their mirror image on the phone screen as Ashton goes to press his thumb down. At the last second before he takes the picture he presses his lips to Calum’s cheek sloppily and grins. He sends it off before Calum can get a look at his own bewildered expression.  
  
It’s not like Calum saving that photo as his phone background means anything. They’re just friends. It’s a nice photo.  
  
Michael tells him to stop being a sap. Yeah, because that’s likely anytime in the near future. He does wonder in the back of his head if other people think they look like a couple when they see that photo though. Like, Ashton kissed him. On the cheek - but still. Calum’s tentatively hopeful about the whole thing. But on the other hand, that night when he’s lying alone in his own bed, rubbing his thumb over the scar on his wrist, he wonders if he’s right in having feelings for Ashton at all. This could definitely blow up in his face. Plus he still hasn’t told his mum about any of it; he hasn’t told her about the whole not going to college thing or about his soul mate dying. He wonders what she’d say if she knew that her son was falling in love with a boy. Which… he definitely, absolutely is. Shit.  
  
  
 **/VOID/**  
  
He’s worried about Michael. Well, he’s always worried about Michael, whatever, but this is different. First it’s the cupboards in the kitchen, which have overnight become organized by shape and color of the boxes from smallest to tallest; then it’s the doorknobs. He’ll come in from doing whatever and Michael will just be in the hallway sitting outside the bathroom door, staring at the doorknob. Sometimes he just stands there turning the knob over and over. Ashton wants to be, like, the knob works, you can stop now, but he’s lived enough to know when his best friend is having a nervous breakdown.  
  
“Mikey,” he says one day, looking at his green-haired friend on the couch. “I think you are having a nervous breakdown.”  
  
And Michael looks at him, pulls a face and goes, “Nah, mate, I’m fine.” Ashton remains worried, though - he’s worried about the fact that Michael’s counter will time out in just a little over a month, and is Michael in denial? Because he’s suddenly produced a massive collection of bracelets out of nowhere that take up half his arm, obscuring the counter completely. It’s always been normal for him to sleep most of the day and eat nothing but pizza. Now he spends the afternoon drinking heavily and playing his guitar badly along to YouTube videos. Not that there’s anything, like, wrong with a dose of teenage alcoholism.  
  
Maybe he is reading too far into things.  
  
He hangs out with Michael for the afternoon and drums on the table with two pencils he’s found. They both have pretty alright voices. “We should form a band,” he says casually. And Michael, for all his efforts, just stares at him dumbfoundedly and goes back to dicking around on his guitar. He’s actually trying to suck; it’s frustrating because Ashton feels stuck in a rut and he feels like this - forming a band - is what could pull both of them out from it. Some people don’t want to be saved. So should he count Michael among the non-living? ‘Cause the way he’s living, this cooped up in the house thing, it’s going to kill him if he doesn’t get out.  
  
Later he goes to Calum and Luke’s with a pizza. They three sit on the floor around the coffee table generously donated by Luke’s parents and eat. He tells them about the band thing, and Michael not wanting to do it, and to his surprise Luke looks at him and says “Well, fuck him then. Let’s form a band and when we’re famous he’ll feel like a dick.” And so the band is started - just a fledgling endeavor - so they spend the rest of the night playing around on guitars and Calum helps him to makeshift a drum kit out of waste bins and an empty water cooler jug. They end up making a video and uploading it to YouTube. It’s not horrible, he thinks, and they could actually turn out to be quite good with a bit of practice.  
  
When he gets home at two or three in the morning, Michael’s still awake. “Ashton,” he says. “You wound me. You’re cheating on me with another band.”  
  
“You said you didn’t want to do it, ya fuckface,” Ashton reminds him. Besides, they were never a proper band. Michael’s never even been to a live gig - part of the consequence of his weird agoraphobia - so he’s really one to talk. He wasn’t expecting Luke and Calum to be so good. Luke, usually reserved and quiet, turns out to have a top-rate singing voice that harmonizes with Calum’s nicely. They play off each other’s strengths. Like, yeah, they’re a bit out of tune. It’s not something a little practice won’t fix.  
  
“Yes, well, I had Important Things to do.”  
  
He can’t help it. He’s exasperated. “Mikey, dyeing your hair and listening to shit music is not as grand and important as you like to think. When’s the last time you even left the house? Other than going to buy more dye or pizza, I mean?” Michael just glares at him and makes an angry noise before stomping upstairs and slamming his bedroom door. If any of his professors saw him right now they’d say that Ashton was the worst aspiring psychologist ever. Poor bedside manner. He’s just so… frustrated. He kicks the couch.  
  
  
 **/VOID/**  
  
In the bathroom cabinet a few days later, he finds the razors. Not, like. They’re razor blades popped out of the plastic casing, wrapped in a square of toilet paper and pushed into the corner of the cabinet. Ashton was just looking for some Tylenol. His heart stops for a second.  
  
Wow. How did he miss the signs?  
  
He puts them back where he found them and takes an extra Tylenol tablet. Because wow. He’s been so distracted with school and Calum and now the band that he never even thought to check in with Michael, make sure he was okay. Worst friend of the year award goes to Ashton Irwin for being so fucking obtuse when he’s a fucking psychology major. Jesus christ. Michael’s still passed out in bed. He needs to fix this. Fuck. Fuck. If he throws the blades away it won’t fix anything; it will only push Michael to find something else to use to self-harm. He should have seen the goddamn signs. For now he decides to play it cool - just act like he doesn’t know anything, see how Michael reacts - and in the meantime he’ll try and get some of their friends on his side so they can try to help.  
  
It’s only three or so weeks until the counter times out. Why didn’t he think this was a problem? He pretends not to notice that Michael has one of his bandanas wrapped around the wrist where his counter is. “Morning, Mikey,” he says. Michael just stares dead-eyed at him and stumbles into the kitchen in search of breakfast.  
  
Over the next three days Ashton notices the tics. They’re quiet ones, mostly, Michael’s compulsions - but they’re there. He watches Michael touch the drawer pulls four times each before he opens them and wash his hands in multiples of four. It’s the little things - the gradual things - that kill him. The bandana wrapped around the wrist; the razor blades in the bathroom cabinet. It makes his heart hurt to see his friend suffering. He tries to be a little kinder, a little softer when Michael wears on his patience. “Let’s order a pizza,” he says. So they do - in the meantime Alex and Jack show up with beer - and, for a little while anyway, everything seems back to normal.  
  
He pretends not to notice Michael picking the pepperoni off his pizza until there’s an even amount on each slice.  
  
Fuck.  
  
They have a normal evening - except Ashton knows it’s not normal. Because Michael used to not disappear into the bathroom at random for half an hour at a time; he used to not marinate in the bathtub, staring at nothing. Obsessive-compulsive disorder, he decides, is an insidious illness. It’s sneaky, and it robs the best of people. And the worst part of it is that none of them saw it coming. How is he supposed to casually mention this to anyone? He can’t well call up Michael’s parents and say, “Hey, I think your son has OCD.” For one - and the biggest reason they live together - Michael’s dad would swoop in and ruin everything and, like, force Michael into a residential care facility. Ashton knows those places ruin people. So he doesn’t say anything when their mums call to check in; he says everything is great, need money for groceries, he’s forming a band.  
  
Calum stops by. “Are you alright?” he asks, eyes wide with concern.  
  
“Yeah, I’m just… stressed,” Ashton tells him lamely. Like, he wants to talk about it with someone, but he doesn’t want Calum to get weird or anything. So he sort of waves his hands vaguely about and hopes that communicates his crisis level effectively enough. He hasn’t gotten much sleep and probably smells like ass, since he hasn’t showered in two or three days. Calum hugs him - and that takes him by surprise - and he hugs back, glad for the comfort. They stand in the entryway of the house holding onto each other for a moment. Which helps him pull his head out of his ass and think clearly; instead of his head clouding with worry all he can focus on is the scent of Calum’s body wash and that subtle mix of sweat and dirt. Earthy. He smells… earthy. If that makes any sense.  
  
And Calum, smart boy that he is, clues into what the matter is and gives him a knowing look. “I’m sure it will be fine,” he says. They go up to Ashton’s room and try to pretend like his life isn’t falling apart. He puts his hand on Ashton’s knee and asks, “How bad is he freaking out about his counter?” in a low voice.  
  
“I don’t know how much of it is the counter and how much is just… you know, angst. But I’m worried. I’m officially freaked out.”  
  
“Luke’s been panicking about his too. I can’t believe it’s going to happen so soon. It will all work out, though. You’ve just… gotta be there for him, I guess,” Calum tells him. And instead of their usual fucking about online, that evening they lie close on Ashton’s bed and talk in low voices because they’re both worried about their friends. Luke, he knows, will be fine. He’s got his life planned out down to the second; he will probably take meeting his soul mate completely in stride. Michael - on the other hand - he doesn’t even know when it’s going to happen. Does that make him a shitty best friend? That he doesn’t know how long is left on the clock until Michael either meets his soul mate or implodes? It’s a very pressing concern.  
  
Calum holds onto his hands and tells him that everything will be okay. “That’s easy for you to say,” Ashton tells him, pressing a fingertip against Calum’s scar gingerly.  
  
“Not everyone is as lucky as us, Ash.” And that phrase gives him pause - us - because is it a general us? Is it us as in Ashton-and-Calum? Us as in us friends without soul mates, who don’t have to worry about crazy shenanigans? Us people who will never find love? Before he can ask for clarification, Calum goes, “I used to wonder if I would even like mine, you know? Not that it matters now. But, like, I’m pretty sure even if you have a soul mate you can fall in love with someone else if it’s the right person. Otherwise I’d be screwed.”  
  
Ashton holds his breath. “Why,” he says, “are you… Are you in love with someone?” But what he’s really asking is, are you in love with someone else? Someone that’s not me?  
  
Calum nods. “I think so. I don’t know. It’s complicated?”  
  
“Love is always complicated.” He rolls over and sets up a movie on his laptop. They’ve been on a big comic book movie thing lately.  
  
It seems to be the end of the conversation; Calum goes “Oh, neat, Fantastic 4!” and scoots closer to him. He hooks his chin over Calum’s shoulder and stretches his legs out, noting that since they’ve started hanging out Calum has actually gotten taller than him. The thought creates a warm, muzzy feeling in his chest. It’s only a couple inches. While they watch the movie, though, he can’t stop worrying about Michael. It makes him fidgety. Everyone’s always worrying and carrying on about him - save for Calum and Luke - when he probably has the best mental health of anyone he knows. “You worry too much,” Calum tells him sleepily. “Watch the movie.”  
  
  
 **21:15:45:38**  
  
Finals week, Luke decides, will never get easier as long as he’s in college.  
He’s in the library with Ashton, studying for his anatomy final. Which he knows he’s going to fail; he’s only got a 42 in the course so far, and short of a miracle happening he’s going to bomb the final. They’re both cramming. “Luke,” Ashton says to him, “If you’re this unhappy then why don’t you just switch majors?” Easy for him to say, Luke thinks. He’s only got his psychology practical to go and then he’s done for the summer. Luke has this and his chemistry lab final before he’s finished, and then he only gets a two week reprieve before summer classes begin.  
  
“It’s not that easy,” he whines. “Like, what would I even do? Not even mentioning the fact that my mum and dad would be furious if I didn’t follow in the family footsteps.”  
Ashton nudges the dog-eared notebook he’s been carrying everywhere with him since the beginning of the semester. “Uh, you could try getting some of your writing published? You’re good. And I’m not just saying that ‘cause we’re friends. I just think you’d be happier doing something else.” To further elaborate his point, he reaches into Luke’s bag and pulls out the novels he’s been reading this past week.  
  
Now is definitely not the time to discuss this. “Look, can you just help me study? My mum will be pissed if I fail this class.”  
  
“Take the summer section,” Ashton tells him.  
  
Luke groans and buries his face in the textbook. He’s so frustrated. On top of dealing with finals, he’s going to meet his soul mate in exactly three weeks. The way he feels about it fluctuates by the hour. Because on the one hand, ohmygod he’s going to meet his soul mate. But on the other hand - he’s too young for this, too young to be meeting the person he’s going to spend the rest of his life with. Ashton is utterly unconcerned - he’s writing his notes in neat, tiny handwriting and rubbing his fingers over the words Calum’s scrawled on his forearm. Disgusting, the way those two love each other. And Luke doesn’t even think they know that they are in love. He sees it from outside, and he knows. Calum goes all gooey and pliant whenever Ashton is near; melts into his side and goes quiet and shy and slightly moony.  
  
Two hours later his final is supposed to be starting. Does start, anyway - only he’s not there. He’s not taking the test. He’s panicking. He’s hiding in the library toilets with his knees drawn up to his chest, hyperventilating. He’s never failed anything before. Is this the start of his downward spiral? Stares at the counter at the wrist, watches the seconds melt smoothly into his wrist, presses the back of his hand against his eyelids. Luke Hemmings is having a panic attack. He wonders if his soul mate ever feels this way - like, do they sometimes feel trapped by their obligations? Do they freak out like this? Or do they have cool, super chill parents that support them in everything they do?  
  
He meets up with Calum for lunch after like nothing happened. “Hey man,” Calum goes, pulling him in for a hug. “How was it?”  
  
“It was fine,” he snaps. “Why?”  
  
“Hey, chill. You were stressing out about it so I just wanted to make sure you were, like, okay. Don’t get bitchy with me.” Calum’s wearing baggy shorts and a snapback today. He looks very tired and very unwashed. Finals week hasn’t been kind to either of them. Luke buys a salad and a Red Bull and picks at it grumpily. He doesn’t know what Calum’s been doing, exactly, but he hasn’t been sleeping a lot and he checks his phone compulsively.  
  
They’re having their first proper band practice in the afternoon; Ashton rented them a practice space in the local music shop with his last pay check so he doesn’t have to move his entire drum kit. Luke’s been writing a few songs he hopes to work on with the guys. They go back to the apartment for a quick scrub and a change of clothes and meet Ashton with their guitars. And of course Luke’s still dead tired, so the entire hour goes by in a haze.  
  
In the end they have three songs of their own and a handful of covers. As they’re packing everything up, Calum checks his phone again and lets out a whoop of joy. “Lads,” he says, incredulous. “I’ve booked us a gig.”  
  
“When for?” Ashton asks. He’s clearly already wondering about booking time off from his summer job; since the university runs less hours for the summer he’s picked up a job bartending on the side.  
  
“Three weeks,” Calum tells them. Luke has a feeling in the pit of the stomach. That’s when his counter times out. He’s going to meet his soul mate at their first gig.  
  
Well, this is an interesting turn of events.  
  
  
 **16:20:44:15**  
  
He sleeps in Ashton’s bed, ‘cause he’s afraid to be alone. So he sleeps curled into Ashton’s side and squeezes his eyes shut and prays for sleep. He’s wearing one of Ashton’s bandanas over his counter. Tonight it’s him and Ashton and Calum, too, and Calum has put a movie on the laptop and he’s in the middle of both of them. He feels like pulling all his skin off and screaming. Calum’s face is pressed to his shoulder. Ashton’s arm is draped over his stomach. It’s not the most comfortable position, to be honest, but it’s comforting. “I love you guys,” he tells them.  
  
“We love you too, Mikey. Really.”  
  
“Good,” he says. He can’t help that he squirms uncomfortably during the movie. It’s like this restless, crawling sensation - he can’t make it go away, no matter how many showers he takes or how many times he washes his hands - and it hurts in his chest and his head and his soul. The other two eventually fall asleep, leaving him alone with his thoughts. But at least the rhythm of their breathing anchors him to reality; he doesn’t know what he’d do without them. Even him and Calum are starting to be friends now, if grudgingly so. They have a kind of unspoken understanding thing. He doesn’t know if Calum considers him a friend yet. He hopes so. Since college ended he hasn’t had to be alone in the house: When Ashton goes to work and Calum goes to do whatever he does, Alex or Jack come over to hang out with him. Sometimes he gets them all four at the same time, and he feels safest then.  
  
He hasn’t hurt himself in two days simply by not allowing himself to be alone. He can’t tell them how he’s feeling - he can’t, he can’t. Not when the clock is ticking and he’s got to make a decision within the next two weeks.  
  
The way Michael sees it, he has two choices: Give fate a chance and try out this soul mate thing, going along with his predestined path… Or, he kills himself.  
  
This is why he can’t tell them; he knows what they’ll say and he knows he doesn’t want to go and sit in a mental ward. He’s waiting to see what it’s like. His soul mate, that is. He’ll decide on the day it happens. If it turns out that they’re cool, maybe he’ll stick around. If they turn out to be, like, terrible… Well. He picks at a half-healed scab under the bandana, itchy. The counter tells him he has just a little over two weeks left before he meets his soul mate. He can’t imagine meeting someone that will mesh with his life the way his friends have. Can’t imagine loving someone romantically, someone loving him back. What is there left of him to love? He wakes up an hour after he falls asleep, damn with nervous sweat. For the rest of the night he plays dumb games on Calum’s phone, which has a much better screen than his own.  
  
In the morning, he leaves the house with Ashton to go to the tattoo studio. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Ashton asks him as he fills out the consent form.  
  
He nods. “Yeah, dude,” he says. When they get called into the room, the piercer marks his eyebrow with two dots and gives him a mirror to check the placement. Michael squeezes Ashton’s hand so hard his fingers turn red when the needle pierces through his skin. At the end of it he’s got a shiny silver barbell through his eyebrow, though the skin is slightly red and swollen. “Cool,” he says, looking at his reflection. They pick up a pizza on the way back home, and it’s almost like a normal day. They laze about on the couch and drink some beers, and it’s good just to be inside the bubble of their friendship. Insulated. He doesn’t even get annoyed when Calum calls, later, and Ashton gets that dopey look on his face and paces around in the office.  
  
Calum calls him on Facetime and says, “I want to see your new piercing.”  
  
He shows it, trying clumsily to angle his phone’s camera properly. “It’s still pretty red, I mean.”  
  
“Looks sick, mate. I can’t wait to see it in person.” They end the call and Ashton wanders off to do… whatever it is he does. Michael touches his new piercing anxiously; everything that happens feels so disconnected. He thinks he’s having a nervous breakdown. It feels like he’s drowning all the time. Sometimes he loses track of time - he doesn’t know where his mind goes during those lost hours, but he’ll shake his head and suddenly he’s in the shower, being pelted by ice-cold water, or sometimes in the kitchen with the sink filling up. How fucked up is he? He knows he hasn’t been sleeping.  
  
What is he supposed to do?  
  
He has to get it together for the band’s first gig. He has to be okay enough for that, at least, and then he can make his decision. Ashton and Calum have been working hard on their songs, with Calum’s roommate. Michael hasn’t met the roommate - but that’s not the point. Ashton says that the roommate is kind of awkward and shy and good-hearted. So Michael needs to at least be able to function, anyway, if he’s Calum and Ashton’s friend. He’s trying so hard to be okay.  
  
He doesn’t know how to talk about it, but in the middle of the night he has to. To Calum, he says, “I’m gonna call you and I need you to let it go to voicemail. I need to talk.” He can’t talk to Ashton about this whatever-it-is, so he calls Calum back and talks to his voicemail. “Hey Cal,” he sighs. “Um. Do you ever get really sad, sometimes? Like, I just can’t… I am so scared all the time and I don’t know how to stop and I don’t know how to talk to anyone about it. I can’t stop doing this to myself. And I keep thinking that, like, it’ll either get better or worse when my counter times out. Don’t know which I’m hoping for anymore. Everything makes me upset, you know? I’m sad all the time and I am supposed to be happy and I think I am losing myself. I can’t talk to Ash about it, either, because he’ll just worry and I don’t want him to. But I feel like I can talk to you. I’m just… freaking out. I don’t even know if I want to have a soul mate. I keep thinking about it and all I can think is, am I really going to be happy stuck with someone just because some arbitrary power decided so? Like, I want it to be my choice. I don’t know. Thanks for listening, I guess,” he says, and hangs up.  
  
Calum, for as much bitching as he had done when they first met, doesn’t mention it the next time they see each other. He doesn’t feel as though any weight has been lifted from his shoulders. But Calum does come over while Ashton is in morning classes armed with his laptop and Taco Bell, so that’s something. “I’ve been working on this thing,” Calum says hesitantly. “I want to show you. Just… don’t laugh, okay?” He types an address into his browser and turns the laptop towards Michael. It’s… a blog. Michael scrolls down the page and finds that there are a ton of music reviews.  
  
“You did all this?”  
  
“Yeah,” Calum says with a nod. “Like, at first I just wanted to make a new layout for my Tumblr and then I went a bit… overboard.”  
  
“It’s brilliant. You taught yourself to do all this on your own?” And Calum nods, bashful. “Mate… you should be getting paid for this stuff, you know? You could make a killing.” He loops his arm around Calum’s shoulders. Calum’s writing is actually pretty good… He ends up going through the whole blog later that night and discovering a ton of bands he’s never even heard of. So that’s something, at least. They play a few rounds of FIFA until Ashton comes home and steals Calum for, like, their whatever-it-is. Michael thinks they should probably tell each other how they feel, soon. At least someone should get to be happy, since he isn’t.  
  
He continues avoiding mirrors, the sink and shower. It’s gross; he knows it’s gross but it’s better than being overcome by the compulsion and scrubbing his hands or skin until it bleeds. In a way it’s worse than the cutting. Listening to Calum’s bands alone in his room, for the first time, gives him a feeling almost like hope. He clings to it.  
  
  
 **-:-:-:-**  
  
Calum tells his sister, first. He calls her and asks, “Hey, do you have a second to talk?”  
  
And she says “Yeah, of course, always. What’s up?”  
  
He almost hangs up the phone. He’s panicking. Ashton’s sat beside him, holding his hand, and mouths ‘You can do this’ to him. He squeezes Ashton’s fingers gratefully. “Okay, like, you can’t tell mum yet, because I want to tell her myself, but uh. I’ve kind of not been going to school…? I’ve started a music blog and me and my friends have formed a band and I think I’d rather just… keep doing that. Banding, I mean. We’ve got a gig booked next week if you want to come or something.”  
  
“You’ve got to tell mum,” she tells him. “You know that she’ll always support you no matter what, but you’ve got to be honest with her, Cal. Anyway, I’ve got to get to work, but I’ll talk to you soon, yeah?” They say their goodbyes and Calum cries with relief. He feels foolish for crying, of course, but he was so sure he’d get shouted at.  
  
Ashton lets him cry for a long time, until he physically can’t anymore.  
  
He’s glad he got that off his chest. He’s got too much he’s keeping inside; sometimes he feels overwhelmed by it all. When he doesn’t stay over at the house with Ashton he sleeps with Luke in his tiny bed and wonders why they’re all such wrecks lately. Privately he likes staying better with Ashton though. With Ashton he can curl up under the covers and laugh too much at dumb movies, feeling utterly self-conscious the whole time even though he can’t place why. They sleep close together in the big bed, sometimes with Michael too. He doesn’t know how to talk about it. He doesn’t know how to tell Luke - and Luke’s his best friend since, like, approximately forever.  
  
No. He knows what Luke is going to say. “Tell him you like him, you dolt,” Luke would say. And then Luke would make kissy faces at them forever, and he would die of embarrassment.  
  
He decides he’ll tell Ashton after their first gig, if he still feels this way. If it goes well he won’t say anything - he doesn’t want to wreck the band - but if they totally tank, he’ll say something. He wouldn’t be opposed to things staying the same. It’s just… like, totally lame. Feelings are dumb. He doesn’t know when the lines got blurred between friendship and him wanting to kiss Ashton. They do all the same stuff he does with Luke and Michael, and he knows for certain he doesn’t want to kiss either of them. There’s a kind of bigness to his feelings he doesn’t want to put a name to. It’s not that he’s opposed to being in a relationship with a guy. It’s… Well, he doesn’t want to fuck their friendship up, for one. And then there’s the banding - he would feel guilty as hell if he wrecked that for any of them. It’s confusing, really, because he doesn’t want to kiss any of his other friends.  
  
Later in the week, Ashton goes, “You and Luke should move in with us.” Just so casual.  
  
“I… Really?”  
  
“Yeah, why not? After your lease is up. I mean, we’ve got the space. We could clear out the office and put the workout equipment in the garage so you could have the third bedroom. Or… I guess we could sell the exercise machines, ‘cause it’s not like we use them anyway.” Ashton seems so certain of this plan. What if it doesn’t work out? What if they end up fighting all the time, or hating each other, or…?  
  
He wants to do it. “Yeah, I mean, obviously we’d need to talk to Luke and Mikey about it. I think we should do it. We could have a band house.”  
  
Ashton hugs him and it feels different than when Luke hugs him. He holds just a little bit tighter and Calum doesn’t want to let go of him, ever. Michael wanders into the room and goes, “Ugh, gross. Get a room for that.” They pull him into the hug, collapse onto the couch in a pile of tangled limbs. Calum loves this. He could get used to this being every day.  
  
  
 **09:14:23:25**  
  
Okay, so maybe Luke doesn’t enroll in the summer anatomy course like he’s been telling everyone he has. It’s possible that he signed up for a creative writing seminar, instead, and it’s possible that he’s going to shoot himself in the face because writing is hard. He’s staring at their first prompt, wondering how he’s going to write five thousand words about a tree falling in the woods. Every time Calum comes into his room he switches the window on his laptop quickly. And he’s not sure, exactly, why he doesn’t want anyone to know: It’s not like Calum would judge him, and Ashton’s the one who encouraged him to follow his heart on this. For right now he wants this to be something he does just for himself. So he struggles through the prompt for the first week and hands it in, fidgeting through the entire critique workshop that follows.  
  
He’s confused, then, when the professor tells them at the end of class, “You guys have unanimously decided that Luke Hemmings’s piece was the best this week. Congratulations, Luke - you get to pick the prompt for our next class on Monday. Enjoy your weekends, everyone.”  
  
Maybe he’s not so bad at this, after all. It’s just that it’s harder to write on a prompt than just writing whatever comes in his head, or about his feelings or whatever. Like, he’s written a couple of songs now with the band, but that’s banding - it’s different, they’re different together. When it’s just him alone he kind of feels drifted out to sea. He spends the weekend thinking about his prompt idea. He hangs out with Calum, mostly, because Ashton’s working at his new job and they don’t want to bug him. They fall into an easy rhythm of listening to too-loud music, each on their laptop doing their own thing.  
  
“Luke?” Calum asks him suddenly.  
  
“Yeah, Cal,” he replies, picking a piece of fluff from Calum’s hair.  
  
“Do you think when you meet your soul mate, you’ll love them right away?”  
  
He doesn’t know how to answer that. Of course he hopes so. There are always stories of those people who meet their soul mates and feel that instant connection - that, like, pull toward each other - but it’s entirely possible that they’ll hate each other the first time they meet. He’s going into it with a positive attitude, and he hopes whoever is his soul mate will do the same. “Dunno, really,” he says finally. “Like, I hope that they like me and I hope I like them. It won’t be the end of the world if I don’t, I think. Like. We’ve got the band, and stuff.”  
  
Calum tips his head back against Luke’s knee and sighs. “I think I have a crush.”  
  
“What, on Ashton?”  
  
“Well, yeah. What do I do?” Calum asks, picking at the holes in his jeans. Luke can’t say he didn’t see this coming - it’s been a long time coming, honestly - but he doesn’t know any better than Calum how to deal with crushes. He’s just been waiting for his soul mate, figuring that it would all work itself out in the end. He drags his knuckles over Calum’s shoulder.  
  
“You could always try telling him, I suppose.”  
  
Luke does think, deep down, that they could be good for each other. Calum’s just very hesitant about his feelings, always has been. It’s not like he couldn’t figure out from the lyrics Calum’s written anyway; it was fairly obvious but Ashton is fairly oblivious at times. Not that it’s a bad thing, just - he wants his friends to be happy. He doesn’t want to be a third wheel. Even if he does become one, though, he sort of always has been - and, soul mate. That’s happening soon.  
  
It’s sort of weird timing, with it being their first gig and all, but Luke takes it as a good omen of things to come.  
  
The only thing he has to do is his creative writing seminar and his summer job, which takes place mostly in the mornings. He’s a paid volunteer at the animal shelter. Mostly his job consists of walking the dogs and cleaning up after them. He likes it well enough. The dogs are sweet, and he’s always happy to see them get adopted by loving families. Secretly he’s pleased that they’re a no-kill shelter; his heart couldn’t take it if he had to see any of them sent away like that. Ashton’s asked them to move into the house next month when their lease is up. It’s basically a guaranteed shot. He can’t imagine them not getting along with Ashton’s roommate. Well, mostly him - Calum’s over there basically every day; the only reason he doesn’t tag along is that he’s usually busy and when he’s not he feels like he’d be imposing.  
  
Plus he’s nervous about meeting his soul mate. It’s happening so soon; he can’t stop thinking about it. Wondering what they’re like.  
  
He’s also kind of nervous about their gig. He’s supposed to meet his soul mate there. What if he fucks up their set because he’s too nervous? What if he gets stage fright? He doesn’t want to embarrass himself before they’ve even met properly. God, there’s so much to think about. He needs to plan an outfit. Luke pretends that he’s not vain - but he kind of is. What he’s going for is, like, too cool to care. Mostly he thinks it comes across as kind of douchey, especially since he can’t go a goddamn month without tearing the knees of his jeans. He’s embraced it as a style. Also, he and Calum share basically their entire wardrobe, so it’s hard to develop much of a sense of personal style when he’s stealing someone else’s stuff.  
  
On his next day off, he and Calum go to the laundromat. They fill the backseat of his car with dirty clothes and dig under the couch cushions to find enough change. Luke’s mum donates the laundry soap. “Remind me again,” Calum whines, “why we’re washing everything we own on a Sunday?”  
  
“Because I don’t want to smell like ball sweat when I meet my soul mate,” Luke says. He glances at the counter, cheerfully displaying 05:15:09:23. His stomach does a backflip.  
  
Calum just rolls his eyes and sits cross-legged in the laundry cart. “Push me, Lucas,” he demands. While the first load is in the washer they take turns in the cart, careening across the empty aisle until they reach the bank of industrial clothes dryers at the back wall. It’s not a bad way to spend the end of the weekend. He doesn’t talk about how nervous he is. They sing along to a Katy Perry song on the radio and Luke pretends like everything is normal. Surprisingly, it helps him feel better about things.  
  
  
 **04:04:39:21**  
  
He dyes his hair.  
  
Not, like, because of the soul mate thing. He doesn’t want it to come off like he’s trying too hard to get them to like him or anything, ‘cause he really doesn’t care. The compulsions start getting to him and he decides if he’s going to be sequestered in the bathroom, may as well do something productive. So he dyes his hair obnoxious pink again, picks at the healing scab on his elbow from scraping it earlier in the week. He had a relapse a day ago; he’s got another of Ashton’s bandanas covering the new cuts and feels like shit about them. He knows he shouldn’t. But after the timer goes off, he rinses the dye out and after that scrubs the pink stains out of the tub.  
  
Hell, he could clean the whole house. Michael cleans the entire bathroom until it’s sparkling. It’s possible that he could be high from the bleach fumes. He collapses on the couch when he’s done, slightly damp and already sweating. Alex is hanging out in the living room, just casually, playing FIFA by himself. “What were you doing,” he goes, “huffing the fumes?”  
  
“Maybe that’s my deep dark secret,” Michael tells him.  
  
Alex punches him in the arm.  
  
They play until it’s dark outside. Ashton comes home from his bartending shift frowning and smelling vaguely of alcohol. “College students are the worst,” he groans. “This girl got her drink all over me.” His shirt has a pale blue stain on it. Calum comes over shortly after and the two lovesick idiots retreat to Ashton’s room. Well, hopefully they admit their feelings each other. It could almost be one of those obnoxious Tumblr blogs: When will Ashton and Calum man up? The thought amuses Michael briefly.  
  
He’s stressed out. He can feel himself slipping. After Jack comes to collect Alex, he’s alone in the downstairs and the thoughts start really getting to him. Stuff like: How could his soul mate ever love him when he’s literally the most terrible person ever? He contributes nothing. His parents pay for him house and bills. No one even expects him to find a job or go to school. So, how could his soul mate love someone so lazy and selfish? The most productive thing he’s done with his week is dye his hair, and even that turned out kind of weird. There are a few spots he thinks it could be more pink. But, effort. Doing anything these days is slightly exhausting. Possibly he’s depressed. He doesn’t really want to think about it. He wants to get this soul mate thing over with so he can decide what to do.  
  
Being teen angst-y takes so much work.  
  
But the thoughts cycle around and around, feeling as though they reverberate inside his skull. He knows if he doesn’t do something he’s going to fuck up again. Michael doesn’t want to fuck up again. It sounds shitty, but he really wants to make it until he times out without any new cuts. Such a small goal suddenly feels unachievable. Rather than succumb to the shit his brain is throwing at him, though, he drags himself up the stairs to Ashton’s room and throws himself on the bed between Calum and Ashton. “Pay attention to me,” he tells them.  
  
“You’re so needy,” Ashton says. But he drags his fingers through Michael’s hair in this nice, head-tingly way. Calum leans against him, busily doing laptop things. They have a bit of a cuddle for a while - Calum’s doing music blog things, Ashton messes with the set list for their first official band gig. Oh. Michael’s going to that, too. He’s excited for them. Part of it is that he hasn’t been to an actual gig, like, ever. The other part is that… Well, it’s stupid, but that’s the day his counter times out, so he wants to see what happens. Like, will it be an instant thing? It would suck to have his soul mate be, like, the pizza delivery boy or something. That kid has spots and a weird cowlick. He doesn’t want to say anything about his counter to Ashton and Calum. That would make the whole thing weird and pressure-y.  
  
Also, he’s fairly certain his soul mate is going to turn out to be a dude.  
  
He’s thought about it and he’s not convinced he’s ever been attracted to a girl. When he thinks about the possibility of being with someone in a relationship, it’s always another guy. So that’s a pretty good indication of what he should expect on the big day. Which is, you know, terrifying. What if his soul mate turns out to be some straight dude? Or super boring? What if they’re one of those weird ‘piercings and tattoos are the devil’ types? He wishes he could get it as easily as Ashton and Calum have. Even though they haven’t admitted it, he’s pretty sure they are in love. It’s just a matter of time.  
  
Maybe if the whole soul mate thing doesn’t work out he’ll change his focus to forcing them to admit their feelings for each other. They need the help, clearly. He watches them steal glances at each other. It’s funny because they think they’re being totally sneaky about it. They’re all three so easy with each other - which reminds him of the other thing looming on the horizon. Calum and his roommate are going to move in with them at the end of the month.  
  
He’s not resentful of it, exactly. He’s even helped them drag the furniture out of the office - but he draws the line at helping Ashton haul his ridiculous exercise equipment down the stairs from the third bedroom. They had ordered it from a late night infomercial under the guise of getting fit, but so far it’s been a great storage spot for random pieces of paper and the free weights Ashton bought and then never used. So he thinks about this until he’s finally tired enough to sleep - at which point it’s basically light out, but whatever. Not like he has anywhere to be or anyone to impress. He could do some washing; probably should, he’s not sure any of his clothes could pass the smell test. That also might come across as try hard-ish though. He can’t let anyone suspect anything is up or they’ll get all weird about his soul mate. If he could just, like, melt into the floor and disappear when the counter hit zero, that would be perfect. Ideal, really. He doesn’t want to get, like, consumed with feelings and love and all that other stuff.  
  
He really doesn’t want to have any feelings at all, actually.  
  
Is that weird to think about?  
  
It’s probably a bit weird. He rearranges the things in their cupboards and then the refrigerator. When Alex and Jack come over next, they take it upon themselves to paint the third bedroom. Well, actually, he’s pretty sure Alex and Jack promised they would do it, but they convince him somehow that it would be a fun idea. “It will be relaxing,” Jack tells him.  
  
“I think you just don’t want to do it,” he says back. But he picks up a paint brush anyway, and they manage to do the whole thing in less than a day. Again they may be slightly high off the paint fumes, but that’s up for debate. The three of them together are usually not quite right. It feels good to actually do something, though, so possibly a career in house painting is in his future. If that’s a thing. Michael doesn’t know if it is or not. He doesn’t tell anyone about his nervousness. They probably - and rightly - assume that his restlessness is a normal part of his personality. He can’t sleep. He can’t eat. God. Soul mates. What a fucked up concept.  
  
  
 **00:01:01:52**  
  
So far it’s been a fairly average morning. Luke hasn’t eaten anything - too nervous. But him and Calum manage to get ready to go and out the door in a reasonable amount of time, load the car up with their two guitars and the amps, and head off to Ashton’s house to pick up the drums. They put blink-182 on in the car. He sings along, loudly and obnoxiously, as they drive. He can’t stop staring at his wrist, watching the numbers get lower and lower. Jesus christ, he is so nervous. As long as they stay on schedule, they’ll be at the bar they’re playing at early. And that is where he’ll meet his soul mate. He’s going to throw up. He almost pulls over.  
  
“I can’t do this,” he says.  
  
Calum pats him on the knee. “You can totally do this. You’re wearing your special outfit and everything. I should take a picture. It’s like your first day of school, or something.”  
  
And wow, his best friend is totally obnoxious. “You are a dick.” He frowns as they pull off the highway up to a red light. There’s… more traffic than he had planned for. Fuck. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently. This had better not become the theme of the day. He takes advantage of the quick break from driving to check his reflection in the rear view mirror, fluff his hair anxiously. Luke hasn’t even bothered with the wristband today. What’s the point? He’s meeting his soul mate.  
  
It’s half an hour before they even reach Ashton’s house. Annoyed, Luke pops open the back of the car and shuffles the guitars around to make room for Ashton’s drum kit. It seems like everything takes forever, and he’s frustrated. He could honestly scream. He could drive off without them. And contemplates it, too. Calum goes into the house to collect Ashton and they take a million years between the two of them to load in, and after that Ashton tells them both, “Hang on, I’ll grab Mikey and we’ll be on our way!”  
  
Seriously? He’s blowing off his creative writing seminar to play this gig. They’re going to be late. He’s freaking out. “We’re going to be late,” he tells Calum, aware of the bitchy tone in his voice. It’s stupid that he feels this way. Everything feels urgent. He forgot to watch the time while they were loading in. 00:00:11:25. Jesus christ, he’s going to be late to meet his own soul mate. It fucking figures. He kicks the tire grumpily, only regretting it a moment later when his toes ache. The minute rolls over and Ashton still hasn’t materialized. Okay, one more minute and he’s driving away.  
  
Luke gets into the car and buckles his seat belt. He turns the engine on and turns up the stereo. Whoever Ashton’s roommate is, he’s a dick. He’s the worst person, and Luke already hates him, and it’s five minutes until he’s supposed to time out and they are still sitting in the fucking driveway. He’s never been so furious before. “Stop getting antsy,” Calum tells him.  
  
“Five minutes,” he says helplessly.  
  
Calum sighs. “I think the counter is meant to be more of a guideline,” he suggests. Luke can sense his lack of confidence. Which, great. He’s screwed. This is the one thing he was guaranteed not to screw up, and here it is, screwing up! “Oh, there they are,” Calum says finally, as if that changes anything. Ashton appears from within the house with another guy in tow; that must be the roommate, who Luke irrationally hates for this. It’s too late, though: His counter’s 00:00:01:36. This is a disaster. He bears down on his car’s horn angrily.  
  
“Get in the car, assholes,” he growls.  
  
Ashton climbs over Calum to sit in the backseat. Or crouch, really, since they’ve crammed the little hatchback about as full as it can be. Ashton’s roommate hovers by the driver’s side door awkwardly. Luke doesn’t even want to let him in, fucking… asshole. He’s not even going to dignify this guy’s asshole-ness by making eye contact. Anyway he’s busy staring at his wrist because, like, it’s already thirty seconds. Twenty-nine. He grudgingly opens the car door and leans his seat forward. Calum goes, brightly, “Now that we’re all here, I’m stoked.” Luke could punch him. He really could. Eleven. Ten. Luke could just stop breathing, he supposes. He could crash the car into an electric pole and put himself out of his misery. This is killing him.  
  
Okay, he’s being very teenagerish right now. He will admit he’s being a bit immature.  
  
His counter reaches 00:00:00:00.  
  
“Fuck,” he shouts. The forces that be do not acquiesce to his request and swallow him whole.  
  
In the backseat, he hears the roommate go, “Dude, what is your issue?”  
  
Calum goes, darkly, “He’s having a crisis because of his soul mate. It’s supposed to happen today-”  
  
“-Right now,” he moans. “It’s supposed to be happening right now and here I am in this car with you, because you couldn’t pull your head out of your own ass quickly enough. I’m going to hell.” He rests his forehead on the steering wheel and presses the horn again. It wails mournfully, which just about describes how he feels at the moment. Late to the gig, no soul mate. What could possibly go wrong? What else could possibly go wrong?  
  
The roommate goes, “Like anyone actually takes that crap seriously.”  
  
And Calum says, “At least you probably have one.”  
  
Luke thinks the roommate says something like, “We all know you’re going to marry Ashton.” Not that he’s listening. He’s irritated. He grits his teeth as he drives. The stereo is at full volume - that is, not loud enough to drown out the resounding sound of Luke’s failure. By the time they get to the parking lot he’s calmed down enough to at least breathe properly. He sits in the car after everyone gets out, staring at his wrist.  
  
“You guys go ahead,” he says. “I’ll be there in a minute. Just need to be alone for a second.”  
  
He kind of just sits there. What is he supposed to do now? Nothing could possibly make today worse. He should have stayed in bed. Except that, like. Ashton’s roommate is hanging out by the car, sitting on the curb. Luke finally decides he’s had it with moping in the car, though, so he climbs out and his plan is basically to walk past the roommate and avoid everyone forever. Fuck banding. He’ll… become an author recluse, or whatever. Authors make a ton of money and they don’t have to talk to anyone. Angst. He is filled with angst.  
  
“So,” the roommate says. “You’re the one.”  
  
“What?” Luke says. He feels like he’s missing something. Finally he looks at Ashton’s roommate properly and feels… some kind of something. Mild discomfort? He feels slightly light-headed. It’s stage fright, he tells himself.  
  
The roommate just sighs and rolls his sleeve up. “Look, I didn’t want to do this either. Like, I really do not want to have to do this but you’re all, like, upset. And I guess it makes sense that you would be the one. You of all people.”  
  
“Uh…”  
  
Ashton’s roommate - Michael, his name is Michael - huffs and extends his wrist. “Look,” he says. “Zero. So I’m not really into this whole soul mates, whatever, thing. I just figured Calum would murder me if I didn’t say something. You’re not exactly what I was expecting.”  
  
Luke isn’t sure if he’s more shocked by the confession or the, like… state of his soul mate’s counter. There are several scars - some of them newer than the others - and Michael just looks at him for a long time, makes a face. He feels plenty like shit, though. He’s met his soul mate and his soul mate doesn’t even want him. So he decides to walk away and find Calum before Michael can see him cry. It seems wrong, somehow, and besides that he doesn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction. When he does find Calum, he and Ashton have already sound checked their equipment and confirmed their set time.  
  
Calum hugs him tight and asks, “You okay?”  
  
Not at all. He’s not at all okay. He plays fine through their set - it’s only five songs anyway - and while he knows that they sound fine, he can’t get over the feeling. Michael stares at him the whole time. And, like, what is he supposed to do about the fact that his soul mate is this angry pink haired boy? Beg Michael to love him? It’s… Ugh. He knows he’s bitchy to Calum and Ashton, afterward, but honestly he just wants to go the hell home and sulk about it for a long while. He’s got a soul mate with stupid hair and he’s a dick and the only thing he got out of their encounter was this sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.  
  
Luke lies in bed and despairs of his existence until Calum brings him a cup of noodles. “I know you’re disappointed,” Calum tells him gently.  
  
“I’m so humiliated,” Luke admits. “He doesn’t even like me.”  
  
“Wait, you met him? I thought…”  
  
And he realizes that Calum doesn’t know. “Yeah, I met him. He’s a proper dick. Ashton’s roommate, that is.” He probably should have seen this coming from the circumstances. It would have been nice to have some warning. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? You never get warning with these things. You hope for someone nice who likes the same bands and instead get a rude, mouthy jerk with weird hair and a very pretty mouth.  
  
No, that’s wrong, isn’t it? Luke eats his noodles sulkily and debates the merits of setting himself on fire. No one ever told him how much rejection hurts.  
  
He was expecting some, like, pivotal moment with sunbursts or a lens flare or something. He thinks about the exact moment he met Michael. He was, much like right now, despairing of his general existence. It’s fair to say he was being kind of a jerk. So it’s fair that the first thing either of them said to each other was Michael asking him what his issue is. Which, like, what the fuck? Is his issue? Because he’s having an existential crisis over this. He’s having a bit of a crisis at the scars on Michael’s wrist, too, but he supposes that’s none of his business. And he hates himself for caring. He wills himself not to care.  
  
  
 **/VOID/**  
  
Michael waits to tell him for two weeks. They’re playing Mario Party when he does it. “So,” Michael says. “Don’t freak out.”  
  
Ashton figures this is probably about the obsessive-compulsive thing. Whatever. “What’s up?” he asks.  
  
“My counter timed out.”  
  
He pauses the game. “What? When?” He studies his best friend closely. Michael doesn’t look any different. Somehow he’d kind of… expected it. To look different. But he looks exactly the same as before - well, maybe the dark circles under his eyes are a bit darker - and it’s uncomfortable how nonchalant he’s being about the whole thing. Ashton is immediately suspicious.  
  
Michael swallows half his beer before answering. “Like, two weeks ago. It’s not a big deal. It was really anticlimactic. I didn’t like the guy, anyway, so it doesn’t matter. But you,” he says, gesturing with the neck of his beer bottle. “You need to tell Calum about your super epic crush on him. Before he moves in, preferably.”  
  
And Ashton pretends not to know what he’s talking about. “What are you talking about,” he says, sinking into his couch cushion. “I don’t like Calum. In that way.”  
  
“Yes, you do. You’re both stupid for each other. It’s embarrassing.”  
  
Like, he’s not even mad that Michael didn’t tell him. He’s trying to figure out who it is. They know literally all of the same people. That is to say, neither of them have any friends except each other and Alex and Jack and Calum. It’s definitely not any of those guys - he knows their assignations, so no surprise there - so who the hell else has Michael seen in the last two weeks? The only other thing he can think of is their first gig, which Michael did attend. But that could be practically anybody.  
  
Calum comes over - the first time he’s been over in a bit. They do their normal thing. Admittedly he does feel a bit weird about it; if Michael knows how he feels about Calum then it must be really obvious. “Well, Luke’s proper devastated about the whole thing,” Calum informs him.  
  
Ashton peers over Calum’s shoulder at the laptop screen. “Poor guy. I can’t imagine how he must be feeling.” He tries not to think about what it means that Calum scoots back against him. They’ve been working on stuff for the band - a Facebook page, a couple of social media accounts, that type of thing. No one ever mentioned to him that banding was a lot of hard work and sucking up to people. Mostly they’ve been working off the covers they recorded in Calum and Luke’s bathroom a couple weeks before. It’s just exhausting sending random people messages that say ‘Hey, check out our band!’ and pretending to be sincere about it.  
  
“Yeah, well, apparently Mikey wasn’t exactly graceful about the whole thing.”  
  
Which. Would make a lot of sense. Grits his teeth, fights down the urge to punch something. “Apparently Mikey neglected to tell me that,” he says.  
  
“He’s not really forthcoming about a lot of things, is he?” Calum grabs his hand and squeezes it. The air around them feels heavy, suddenly. He never meant to fall in love with Calum; it just sort of happened and he’s been avoiding it. The timing’s not right. They collectively bitch about the situation. It occurs to him that they should come up with some kind of contingency plan, as Luke and Calum are meant to be moving in that weekend.  
  
It also occurs to him, deep in his lizard brain, that he should probably sort this thing with Calum before then. Separate beds and all.  
  
Not that he, like. Thinks about sexy things with Calum.  
  
Often.  
  
Well, he does. He doesn’t even know if Calum likes him back or if this is, like, stepping on toes because of the thing with Luke and Michael. God. That’s awkward. He quickly decides never to tell Calum how he feels. It’s partly because he’s embarrassed, partly because the way Calum looks at him makes him want to spontaneously combust.  
  
  
 **-:-:-:-**  
  
Calum decides that Ashton Irwin is trying to drive him mad.  
  
They’ve been living together for three whole days and the situation is just… Well, for one, the shirtless thing needs to end. He’s going to die otherwise. Him and Luke played rock-paper-scissors over who got the upstairs bedroom, and he won, and he’s regretting that a whole lot right now. Ashton just exists up there, often without a shirt on, and every time he manages to embarrass himself. So far he’s been successful in avoiding being alone with Ashton - largely thanks to Michael’s need to squeeze between them, a fact which both irritates him and for which he is eternally grateful. There’s less chance of him saying something awkward if there’s a buffer in between them. Although being around Michael at the moment brings with it its own unique set of frustrations.  
  
That being, Michael was kind of a dick to Luke. After Luke was a dick to him. It’s a complicated situation. They’re sitting in the living room, the three of them, when Luke emerges from his bedroom to go to class. “I’m going to class,” he announces. He’s still all mopey over what happened; it’s easy to tell this because he’s stolen Calum’s favorite jogging bottoms and one of Ashton’s shirts. The other reason is because he glares at Michael and pointedly ignores him as he says goodbye to Calum and Ashton.  
  
“Wow, so mature,” Michael calls after him.  
  
They’re not making this easy. So far he and Ashton have decided to let sleeping dogs lie, but he just… Part of him wants to lock them in some room together and go, ‘Kiss and make up,’ but that would be a disastrous plan. Also who is he to talk, he’s in love with Ashton and he’s done nothing about it but pine. Calum elbows Michael in the ribs and hisses, “Don’t be a dick.”  
  
“But he started it!”  
  
“Yeah, well, you guys need to figure it out,” Ashton interjects.  
  
Michael folds his arms and pouts. “Yeah, okay Dad. I’ll get right on that as soon as the prissy little bitch pulls his head out of his ass.” And Ashton grumbles under his breath that he’s not a dad, shut the fuck up.  
  
Calum thinks that this, probably, is why so many parents want their offspring to live at home during college. So this doesn’t happen. This, of course, referring to the whole… messily complicated romantic entanglement situation they’ve got going on. Which is mostly Michael and Luke refusing to speak to each other and saying mean, snarky things in a weird attempt to one-up each other’s meanness. It’s a bit concerning considering Luke’s default setting is mainly ‘I am made of sunshine, please like me’. He’s never seen someone not like Luke before. They’re friends but, like, what the fuck is Michael’s problem. Why can’t he just be nice to Luke? ‘Cause being mean to him is a bit like kicking a puppy.  
  
He sleeps in Ashton’s bed that night. He doesn’t mean to. They’re watching a movie and he kind of falls asleep there, kind of doesn’t want to move because this bed is much more appealing than his own. It’s not really a problem until the morning; he wakes up first and Ashton’s draped over him. Two choices, there: Either he gets up and goes to his own bed or he finds a way to justify staying here. He knows which one he wants to pick. He really does. It feels slightly traitorous, though, especially since Luke is still fuming over the whole soul mate debacle. He’s starting to do the awkward shimmy to get up.  
  
“Where you goin’,” Ashton asks him, voice thick with sleep.  
  
Calum freezes. His heart starts pounding in his chest. “I, uh. Was going to sleep in my own bed.”  
  
“Stay. I like it when you stay.” He wants to. He really, really wants to. It’s early in the morning and the light is still grey; Ashton’s eyes are huge and hopeful. Well, fuck. Fuck it. Fuck Luke and Michael and their whatever bullshit argument - if they want to put themselves through the misery, that’s on them. They had the chance to meet their soul mate and they fucked it up on their own. Calum, he’s never going to meet his. But the feeling in his chest when he looks at Ashton is warm and hopeful, so he’s going to chase that until it hurts. Fuck. He really hopes this feeling stays. So he does.  
  
Maybe this makes him a bad friend.  
  
Okay, it kind of makes him a bad friend. He’s just tired of the slamming doors and ugly words thrown around when Luke and Michael are in the same room. Is that so awful? He’d rather hang out with Ashton, who is warm and golden and makes him feel deep, fluttery things, than deal with the ugliness downstairs. “Let them sort it out on their own,” he grumbles.  
  
  
 **00:00:00:00**  
  
Creative writing seminar gives Luke something to do. He hates being at the house, anyway, because Michael is there and literally never leaves. It aggravates him to no end. At least for his one class he can take his car and go somewhere, sit for a few hours, and get a break from the constant headache of living with someone who despises his very existence. Or something like that. Honestly, he’s never bothered to find out.  
  
The prompt for this week’s piece is passion. Just bloody passion. He gets home - if the house can be considered his home at this point - and he’s trying to figure out what he could possibly cobble together about passion. The only thing he feels passionate about is setting himself on fire every time he has to be near Michael Clifford. He supposes that hate is a passionate enough emotion; he might write a piece describing what he’d do if he ever decided to eviscerate him. He almost forgets, too, that there’s a lip to the top step. Well, he remembers - a moment too late, though, because his flip flop catches on it and he turns his ankle. Luckily he manages to catch himself before he smashes his face, too. “Oh, fuck me,” he groans. And with that there goes his brief positive vibes.  
  
After a few minutes of sitting on the top step clutching his ankle and whimpering in pain, he manages to collect himself enough to hobble through the living room and to his own room. He will hobble dignified-ly and ignore Michael, because that’s what they do - and he stands up and nearly vomits from the pain. Somehow he manages the door and his bookbag and kicking his shoes off with minimal effort.  
  
“Don’t look at me, don’t speak to me, don’t even think about me,” he growls as he hobbles awkwardly through the living room. He’s afraid to look at his ankle; he knows it’s going to be horrific-looking just from the way it feels. Step, drag. Step, drag. The ankle can’t even bear weight.  
  
Michael, though, surprises him. “Jesus christ, what happened to you?”  
  
“You know what, don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t want you to sprain something with all your concern.”  
  
His plan is to sit and wait for Calum to get home and drive him to the emergency clinic if the swelling hasn’t gone by then. Like, he could have sat down in the living room if he had a death wish. Everything is stupid. He doesn’t even want to be near Michael - he’s got stupid hair and stupid clothes and then there’s the blatant unfairness of the situation - so he will sulk in his room. Sometimes he wishes he were wrong. Maybe his real soul mate is still out there somewhere; it could have been a fluke. Probably. It’s not so bad really, his ankle, as long as he doesn’t move.  
  
Michael leans in his doorway and smirks. It’s infuriating. “No, really, what happened,” he says, eyeing up Luke’s ankle.  
  
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Luke lies. That’s a total falsification - it feels much worse than it looks. It’s only slightly swollen. There’s a nice purpling on the outside of his ankle. Almost matches Michael’s hair, like. Not that he notices Michael’s stupid hair, or his stupid smirk, or his stupid… anything about him. Without thinking he rubs his thumb over the fading ink of his counter. He looks at Michael’s wrist, wondering if under the bandana he wears the ink on his is fading too.  
  
“That doesn’t look good. I mean, not that I care.”  
  
Luke shrugs. “Of course you don’t. Can you, like, leave? I’d like to retain my dignity for as long as possible.”  
  
Michael, predictably, ignores him and comes over to peer at his ankle. “Seriously, you should get this looked at. Unless it normally looks like that, in which case…” He reaches out like he’s going to touch Luke’s ankle, which would be a bad idea on the very best of days. Luke thinks that if he actually touches it, he’s going to get kicked. He pointedly ignores Michael and his stupid hair until he finally gets some peace and quiet. Though there is a fair amount of noise in the living room - he really doesn’t care enough to go and see what it is. Maybe he should start covering his wrist again; he’s tired of people looking at it and wondering where his ‘other half’ is.  
  
He’s managed to find a position that doesn’t completely suck when Michael comes back. Michael’s carrying his left shoe, a hoodie of his and his fucking car keys. “If you think you’re taking my car I will strangle you,” he says with as much malice as he can muster up.  
  
“Put this on,” Michael tells him, dropping the shoe in his lap. “This is for after. And also, it’s not like you can drive at this moment. Calum’s making me do this; I’m not doing this because I want to. So don’t get any ideas. We’re still enemies.”  
  
He makes a point of taking his sweet time with the shoe. Soon he sees why he’s only been given one, though: His foot is too swollen to fit in any of the shoes he owns. The idea of Michael considering this makes him irrationally angry. Also, Michael’s collarbones, which are another point of contention for him. Not that he spends time thinking about them - it’s just this thing, like, Michael purposely stretches out the necks of his shirts and his collarbones are visible and they are by all accounts nice ones even if they are attached to someone horrible. He puts the hoodie on, too. It’s always cold at the hospital. Somehow that manages to make him feel even more sullen.  
  
“Luke Hemmings, you’re being kidnapped. Get up. We’re going to the hospital.”  
  
He doesn’t think he needs to point out the ridiculousness of the situation. “As the kidnapper, isn’t it your job to transport me?” he asks, half-sarcastic. For real, he doesn’t know how he’s going to get off his bed without maiming himself. He didn’t think through his plan to wait for Calum; he was kind of hoping that the whole death by humiliation thing was on the table so he wouldn’t have to get up. “This is a ridiculous idea,” he says finally.  
  
In the end Michael hauls him up by the armpits. “You’re the one that broke yourself walking up three steps,” Michael goes. “You’re kind of shit at the whole walking thing.”  
  
It physically pains him to have this asshole driving his car. “You’re driving too fast,” he bitches. “Put the window down, I feel sick.” When Michael points out that his hands aren’t broken he puts together an impressive string of curse words and rolls his own goddamn window down. If he keeps grinding his teeth at his current rate, they’ll be gone by the end of the night. What he wants to know is why Michael aggravates him so much. He’s never wanted to punch someone so much. He’s pissed off. He’s pissed off when he can’t get out of the car by himself; Michael brings a wheelchair over and that’s… Well, he does take a little pleasure from having to have the prick push him around in it. At least there’s that. He should have brought his laptop or something.  
  
They don’t speak in the waiting area. When they call Luke’s name for the triage nurse, he rolls himself slowly over. He gives all his information; the nurse takes his pulse, his heart rate and then prints him off a shiny plastic bracelet for his wrist.  
  
He watches the muted news program on the television. It gives him something to do; the only other options are focus on the pain radiating from his ankle, which is out on account of being painful - or he could talk to Michael. He’d rather be stung by a thousand angry bees. They finally take him in to do x-rays and an overly large male nurse stops them at the door. “Sorry,” the nurse says, though he’s obviously not apologetic at all. “Only family beyond this point.”  
  
Michael makes a noise and goes, “I’m his fucking soul mate, you twit,” and breezes past him coolly with Luke’s wheelchair. “God, what a dick. Calum told me he’d break my legs if I left you alone in here. Both of them,” he says, as if to clarify.  
  
“I don’t care,” Luke says. “I really don’t.”  
  
He is glad of the company, at least, and when Michael gets bored and wanders off he comes back with vending machine cupcakes and a ginger ale. “Don’t say I never did anything nice for you,” he says. He’s annoying; he’s been texting his stupid asshole friends and Luke feels, like, irrationally angry at this. It’s not even like he has anything he could possibly want to say to Michael. Just, like, he never even bothered. At least no one gives him a hard time, with Michael there. The x-ray tech has him hold his ankle in a way that hurts like a bitch. When he swears loudly and prolifically during the x-ray, he hears Michael shout through the door, “I have orders to return him in one piece,” like that changes the situation.  
  
It turns out to be a fracture.  
  
Of course.  
  
All told, they spent about six hours at the hospital, the last hour of which was largely composed of Luke sighing. They’ve given him a cast and some crutches. It’s a huge pain in the ass to move around. The worst part, though, is that he won’t be able to drive himself anywhere until the cast comes off. It’s a big, awful, plaster thing. Maybe Calum will draw something on it. The drive home is silent; Calum takes pity on him and makes him some toast with vegemite on it when he’s settled into his bed.  
  
“You are the best best friend,” he tells Calum gratefully. “I’ve forgiven you for abandoning me in my time of need.”  
  
Calum just laughs. “It couldn’t have been that bad.”  
He stares at Calum. Being stuck in hospital with Michael staring at him and not talking to him was deeply uncomfortable. Even worse, he’s not going to be able to go to his summer job until the cast comes off. He’s not going to be able to walk the dogs, which he was really beginning to enjoy. Not so much the cleaning up dog shit bit, but there’s a good and bad side to everything. He supposes they can do some band things in the meantime. Preferably in a soundproof room in the middle of the ocean so Michael doesn’t hear him sing. It makes him feel vulnerable, somehow.  
  
And for a few days he manages to hang out in his room with his laptop and guitar, writing songs on his own while Calum and Ashton do their own things. The things he’s writing are forlorn, angry things; he doesn’t think he’ll show them to anyone. Part of it is he’s still pissed at Michael. He doesn’t want people to know that he’s, like, writing songs about that asshole. Eventually he grows bored of writing about his feelings, though - because feelings are stupid - and so records a bunch of covers on his shitty laptop webcam and uploads them to YouTube. Let the five fans they have see him at the pinnacle of his angst. He really doesn’t care. Like, he knows he’s being stupid but his feelings are hurt.  
  
It’s stupid that his feelings are hurt.  
  
  
 **00:00:00:00**  
  
“I’m a third wheel,” Michael complains to Alex. “Like, everywhere I go.”  
  
He doesn’t react when Luke walks through the room on his way to take a shower. Like, he really doesn’t care. He leans back against Alex and finishes the last, always-disgusting swig of his cheap beer. They’re a classy bunch, clearly. Alex says, “You do it to yourself, my friend,” and kisses him wetly on the cheek. They’re playing the new GTA and it’s been a laugh riot so far; it would be a lie if Michael didn’t admit that part of his enjoyment of it stems from Luke’s utter disgust for the game. Of course he hasn’t told Alex about the whole soul mate thing. It seems like an irrelevant fact at this point. They’ve met and they don’t like each other. Not exactly a promising future there, so he’s trying his best to forget it ever happened.  
  
Luke walks back through the living room after in just a towel and his walking cast. He doesn’t look. Or, he tries not to look. It’s hard not to look when the towel dips low on Luke’s hips and he’s still slightly damp from the shower and - no. Michael snaps the elastic band he’s taken to wearing on his wrist. He’s liberated some of Ashton’s old textbooks and he’s trying aversion therapy on himself - mainly the reason being if he does it for long enough he might stop thinking Luke is hot. Because that’s inconvenient. He snaps the elastic once more for good measure. It’s not until Luke’s bedroom door slams shut that he realizes he’d been holding his breath.  
  
Wow, he’s stupid.  
  
Alex nudges him, grinning like an asshole. “Way to be obvious,” he goes.  
  
“Fuck off,” Michael hisses. He doesn’t like Luke. They don’t like each other. He hates Luke and his stupid face and his stupid legs and his stupid lip ring. He snaps the elastic a couple times. Stop thinking about him, he scolds himself. It’s not his fault. He fights down the feeling in his chest when he thinks about it a lot. It’s not his fault he can hear Luke’s stupid guitar and stupid voice from the living room. Another snap of the elastic. On one hand, the aversion therapy is helping him to curb his compulsions; his hands are in a lot better shape than they had been. He could just really do without the confusing feelings.  
  
But Alex, being Alex, doesn’t let it drop. “You two should definitely be sleeping together.”  
  
“Trust me, we shouldn’t be. Nor do I want to, you pretentious asshole.”  
  
He crosses his arms sulkily and considers becoming a hermit. Like, in the mountains or something. This whole human interaction thing really isn’t for him. Between Luke being distracting and Alex being an asshole, he’s done with people. Everybody else can be in love. When Alex leaves to go home and everyone else is - probably, he doesn’t check or anything - in bed, he turns the sound on his laptop up to full volume and sings along to the angriest songs he can think of in his bedroom. He gets so into singing along that he forgets everything else; he’s got his guitar and he’s imagining himself playing to a crowd of adoring fans when there’s a knock on his bedroom door.  
  
He pauses the music and hops down from his bed - it was his stage, fuck you - and opens the door just enough to peer through the crack. “It’s three in the morning,” Luke huffs at him, looking pissy and off-balance with only one crutch. He’s not taking the whole ‘broken ankle’ thing well; he stomps around angrily in his walking boot and Michael is sure that Luke wants to hit him with the crutches half the time.  
  
But honestly, it’s three in the morning and Luke is standing in his doorway and he sits there snapping his elastic against his wrist. He says, “Go away.”  
  
Luke has a pathological allergy to sleeves. He’s wearing this ripped-up old Nirvana shirt he’s turned into a tank top, and it’s so not okay. Not that Michael’s thinking about, like, his shoulders or his arms. “Seriously, why do you do that?” Luke asks. He needs to find a more powerful form of aversion therapy. He needs to make an appointment with the therapist Ashton forced him to call last week - even though he doesn’t need to see one, because there’s nothing wrong with him - and book an appointment so he can talk about Luke Hemmings and his goddamn shoulders. Those things should be illegal. Michael stares at him, hoping he’ll take the hint and go away.  
  
“I have OCD, okay?” he says finally.  
  
“Wait,” Luke says. “Like, ‘I don’t like pineapple on pizza and I keep my room tidy’ or what.”  
  
And… “No. No, like I can’t stop washing my fucking hands until the skin starts cracking and bleeding and I’ve got so many intrusive thoughts I can’t get through a day without hyperventilating in a fucking bathroom because literally everything disgusts me and it makes me want to cut my skin off all the time.” He doesn’t mean for that all to come out; once he realizes what he’s said he claps his hands over his mouth, horrified. Of all the things to snap about, this was the one he never meant to. This is something that should stay a secret forever. Like, who the fuck is Luke to judge him?  
  
He makes an appointment in the morning for the very next day.  
  
He supposes he could ask Luke to take him to the appointment - rather, he could ask to borrow Luke’s car - but that’s… not going to happen. For one, he doesn’t want to get made fun of for needing a goddamn therapist. He can already imagine the emo kid jokes that would be made at his expense. Instead, he takes the bus with Ashton. The bus is kind of hard for him, though, because he has to keep touching everything around him. Plus the bus always has that smell about it. When he finally does get off he doesn’t know where he’s supposed to go inside the building, exactly, so he has to ask two different people and then gets in the wrong elevator.  
  
Dr. Feldmann doesn’t say anything about his lateness. Just says hello and asks him some questions about his life, which he answers honestly. He doesn’t know what he was expecting from therapy, but it’s certainly not what he got. He was expecting a couch and an old guy in a suit - not some forty-year old guy with tattoos and bleached hair asking him about his life. The words ‘and how does that make you feel’ are never uttered during their first session. Luke isn’t even mentioned once. They talk a lot about his parents and stuff. Next time, he resolves to mention the whole… soul mate thing. At the end of the session, Dr. Feldmann gives him homework to do. He’s supposed to keep a journal of his intrusive thoughts and write down how he feels about them. So, like, he wasn’t planning on it but he does make another appointment. Which turns out to be a regular thing, him going to therapy.  
  
Maybe it’s like a break from his regular life that he’s taking. “I don’t know,” he says one session, rubbing his hands together. “It’s like, there’s this guy and I am supposed to like him and we don’t like each other and I don’t know if it’s habit at this point or me being stubborn. I always thought that you were supposed to like your soul mate and, I mean, what do I even know about him? We don’t talk. We have all the same friends and everything, just… make a show of avoiding each other.”  
  
“How do you think you would feel about him if you took the pressure of him being your soul mate away?” Feldy - Dr. Feldmann - asks.  
  
He… hadn’t really considered that until now. “I mean, he’s definitely very attractive. If I met him in a bar or something I would probably try to hook up with him, I guess. It would be a challenge getting him to like me though.” He snaps the elastic against his wrist out of habit. Snap. Snapsnapsnap. He shouldn’t have admitted his attraction to Luke; that makes it a tangible thing and that makes it terrifying to think about.  
  
“Ah, that’s time,” Feldy tells him. “How about this week you try to find one positive thing about him and report back? Bonus points if you can have an actual conversation.”  
  
Michael likes the point system. It feels less fucked up than his compulsions, somehow - he gets a point for every day he manages to not do them. The points don’t actually get him anything; he’s just a competitive person and it falls in with his natural skill at games. He decides that he will try to stop snapping his elastic so much when he’s around Luke. It’s probably really counter-productive. Not that he wants Luke to, like, like him or anything. They live in the same house, though, so he feels it’s only right to be civil with each other. Which they haven’t been.  
  
  
 **/VOID/**  
  
Classes begin again with no preamble. One day it’s just the start of the school year again and Ashton’s rolling over in bed, searching for his phone to turn off the damn alarm. There’s a gentle hand on his chest and then Calum goes, “I got it,” and the droning alarm stops. He’s so tempted to go back to sleep. This is his last year - then he’s done his degree, he’s got his bullshitting papers and he can get on with life - so he drags himself out of bed extremely hesitantly. It’s too early in the morning for him to go through his usual mental shit about why he hasn’t told Calum how he feels, yet. Luke’s already in the bathroom using up all the hot water when he’s finally functional enough to contemplate showering.  
  
“Luke,” he sighs, pounding on the door. “I need the shower.”  
  
“Five more minutes,” Luke protests. When he finally does emerge there’s a massive puddle on the floor. What does he do in there, practice swimming laps? At any rate, there’s just enough tepid water left for Ashton to scrub all the important bits and tame his hair a little. He misses the summer; at least with Luke in his walking boot there weren’t fucking puddles in the bathroom and there was always hot water to spare. Although summer had been a bit trying - Luke and Michael at each other’s throats constantly, screaming matches daily - so he’s glad for the relative sense of normalcy that starting classes gives him.  
  
Calum’s not going back to college. Instead he’s doing some freelance work for the local newspaper and he’s taken up concert photography on the side to supplement what he makes from the music blog he started. Ashton’s back to working at the cafe in the library, and Luke works the morning shift at the circulation desk. It’s funny to think how they’ve all matured in just a year. He remembers the moment he crossed paths with Calum, and now it seems strange to think that that could have ended a chance encounter. Nothing could have come of it, but something did. It’s such a strange thing.  
  
“Ready to go?” Luke asks once they’ve completed the morning coffee ritual. Which is - he’d set the timer on it the night before, so by the time him and Luke stumble downstairs there’s already coffee waiting, and it’s Luke’s responsibility to make sure they have enough to make the drive to campus. It’s basically just them so early in the day.  
  
“Yeah, let’s go,” he says. He really feels like everything is falling into place. Michael’s actually been less neurotic than usual lately.  
  
In the car, Luke asks him - it must be that time in the week already - “So, have you told Calum how you feel about him yet?”  
  
His answer is the same as always. “I’ll tell him when I’m ready. When are you going to stop being a cock about it?”  
  
“You two are disgusting pining after one another. I’m just trying to help. Not all of us can have such wonderful luck with relationships,” Luke groans. He’s still bitter about that. Instead of communicating like normal people - because they are impossible - Michael goes to therapy every Wednesday and Luke writes angsty songs about an unknown person who leads him on and stomps all over his emotions. Ashton has unofficially decided that he’ll tell Calum the day that Luke and Michael can have a civil conversation about something. It’s a bet, only with himself. He’s pretty sure at the current rate of entropy they’re going he’ll be seventy-five before he ever has to say anything about it. Who the hell falls in love with their best friend anyway?  
  
Entropy.  
  
He’s pretty sure, actually, that if he tells Calum how he feels he’s going to explode.  
  
It happens anyway.  
  
They’re hanging out in his room - he’s doing homework, Calum’s editing some photos he took - and it’s just so normal that he doesn’t even question it. Calum’s lying beside him, doing his normal thing, and turns to tell him something. “Wait,” he says without thinking. “You’ve got an eyelash.” And he plucks it off Calum’s cheek, just so, and the intimacy of that gesture hits him full a moment later. He can feel himself going red. Wow, embarrassing.  
  
“Aren’t you supposed to make a wish or something?”  
  
“Well, yeah… I think you’re supposed to make the wish, though.” He doesn’t think - it all just kind of happens. Their mouth sort of… collide, and as soon as he gets a grip on himself he pulls away and laughs awkwardly. What is he supposed to do? “Uh… Sorry,” he says.  
  
Calum blinks at him and goes, “That was my wish, you dick.”  
  
“Oh.” And then, “oh.”  
  
“So. Yeah.” Calum goes back to his laptop. And normally Ashton would - well, he’d talk to Calum about stuff like this, wouldn’t he - but he can’t talk to Calum about himself. That seems a little weird, even to him. So he just keeps on going with his reading for class. It’s like nothing even happened. He doesn’t want it to be nothing, though. Like, did Calum actually mean what he said or was he joking around like when Alex and Jack make husband jokes at them? An hour later, when they’ve moved on from doing productive stuff to the general fucking around on the internet while watching a movie in the background thing, he’s debating just asking but he feels kind of stupid about it.  
  
He decides he’ll regret it more if he doesn’t ask. “Hey, did you mean what you said?”  
  
“Only if you’re not mad about it,” Calum tells him.  
  
“Well, cool then.” He hooks his pinky finger around Calum’s. Baby steps. He’s pretty sure he’s grinning like an idiot.  
  
  
 **00:00:00:00**  
  
Luke just wants to borrow a sweater from Calum . That’s all he was trying to do by going into Ashton’s room - because he knows their clothes are so intermingled he’ll never find it in Calum’s, not that he spends much time there ever - and the door’s open so he expects to be able to walk right in. He doesn’t expect to walk in on Calum and Ashton making out on the bed. “Jesus christ,” he says, quickly backing up and closing the door behind him. Michael’s door is open, and it’s right there, and it’s so easy for him to just walk in and go, “I’ve been scarred for life. What has been seen can never be unseen.”  
  
“What makes you think I care?”  
  
“I just saw Calum and Ash making out,” he says. And watches Michael’s eyes go very, very wide.  
  
Michael echoes his earlier sentiment. “Jesus christ, it finally happened. We can never hang out with them again. We need to find new friends immediately.” Luke has noticed that he’s stopped doing the elastic band thing every time they have to interact. He’s not sure if it’s a genuine thing or part of Michael’s therapy homework. They’re essentially forbidden from mentioning it - the therapy thing. He watches Michael almost-reach to snap the band, then stop himself. “Point for me,” he mutters. He’s about to walk away, to go downstairs, when Michael goes “Wait, come back. Who am I supposed to hang out with now?”  
  
It’s kind of petulant, but Luke puts his hands on his hips and scowls. “I’m pretty sure good ol’ lefty and righty there could keep you company.” He can practically hear Calum’s voice in his head telling him to stop being petty. Instead of apologizing - which is what he should do - he sucks his lip ring into his mouth. He’s expecting a petty reply back. When he doesn’t get one, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. This is their routine. They don’t like each other; he’s pretty sure that other than staying with him at the hospital, Michael’s never done anything nice the whole time they’ve known each other. And even then Luke still wanted to hit him with his crutches half the time.  
  
“If you say something stupid like ‘all we have now is each other’ I will set myself on fire,” Michael warns him.  
  
He bites back a laugh. They’re being so melodramatic. “It’s not like someone died,” he says finally. They stare at each other warily; Luke feels vaguely too hot, the way Michael’s looking at him. Out of habit, he messes with the bracelets on his left wrist. He kind of kept wearing them even after he timed out - his wrist felt naked without them. Besides, seeing the faded ink and realizing that his soul mate doesn’t even like him is kind of a bitter reminder. He rubs the back of his neck. The whole staring thing is getting uncomfortable, but he doesn’t want to be the first one to break eye contact. Eye-fucking, the voice in his head says. The term for what they’re doing is eye-fucking. And that’s… opening a whole new can of worms.  
  
“I didn’t know you liked Blink,” Michael says quietly.  
  
“Yeah, well… You never asked. What has that got to do with anything?”  
  
It’s embarrassing that he feels this way. He has that weird prickly, too-hot uncomfortable feeling that he’s only ever felt… “Shit,” he mutters to himself. He only ever feels this way when he has a crush on someone. What is he, like, five? “Anyway, have fun masturbating or whatever it is you do up here.” He leaves the room before he can do anything stupid. Who has a crush on their mortal enemy? Luke decides that the logical solution is to find someone else to project his feelings onto. Perks of living with a psychology major: He’s been Ashton’s guinea pig for several theories, so he knows more than is probably healthy about projection. He needs to find someone to have a crush on immediately. Someone appropriately unattainable or emotionally unavailable.  
  
He’s got to stop thinking about Michael and his goddamn collarbones and how endearingly godawful he is at playing the guitar. It’s messing with his head.  
  
He sits next to this really attractive guy in his comparative literature tutorial the next day. “Hi,” he says confidently. “I’m Luke.” The guy is wearing expensive-looking jeans and a leather jacket over a Ramones t-shirt, which really works for him, honestly. Luke can see a couple tattoos peeking out from where he’s pushed the sleeves of his jacket up. He’s seen this guy in a couple of his classes, so even if he’s wrong about the guy, maybe they could study together or something.  
  
“Zayn,” the guy says.  
  
Luke nods and tries to stop feeling nervous; aside from Ashton he’s always been a bit… awkward around new people. “I’m seriously starting to question why I changed majors,” he says. Their first readings for this class were goddamned Marx and it’s kind of intimidating - but he only has to take one comp lit section per year and he can fill the rest of his course load with actual enjoyable content.  
  
“I’m a photography major,” Zayn tells him. Luke files this information away in his brain for future reference; that could be, like, exciting or something.  
  
But his mouth seems determined to say the stupidest shit possible, so what he says, instead of asking a question or sparking further conversation is, “Cool, my friend Calum is super into photography too. Like, gigs and stuff.” He wishes he could shove his foot in his mouth. Before he can say anything else stupid, though, the teacher’s assistant who runs their tutorial comes and starts the discussion for the reading, so at least he’s been saved for now.  
  
At the end of the tutorial Zayn turns to him and says, “You’re cute. We should hang out sometime,” and gives him a slip of paper with a phone number on it.  
  
“Cool,” Luke says. He leaves before he can embarrass himself again. At least he knows he’s doing something right - he got Zayn’s number, after all - so for the rest of the day he debates with himself how long is acceptable to wait before sending the first text message. Because he doesn’t want to seem desperate.  
  
(He’s surprisingly bitter that he doesn’t have Michael’s number, even though he knows they would never actually talk. It’s just one of those weirdly proprietary things that bothers him about having a soul mate. Like. He had imagined this all going a bit differently; his version of this future didn’t include him trying to hit on random guys in his comp lit tutorial.)  
  
Even though he feels weird about it, he texts Zayn anyway and finds that it’s actually a bit easier than he’d built himself up to think. Zayn’s funny and clever. Zayn mentions, a couple nights later, some girl abroad that his parents expect him to marry - and she’s his soul mate, so - and he says that he wishes it were more acceptable to have a bit more fun before settling down. Luke may be naive but even he can read the subtext in Zayn’s words about that. He doesn’t mention Michael at all. They make plans to go to a party together on the weekend. Well, Luke’s never been to a proper party.  
  
He goes to the living room and tells his friends, “I got invited to this party.”  
  
Calum high-fives him enthusiastically. “Hey, cool.” Ashton glances up from his book - he’s sprawled across Calum’s lap, clearly still reveling in the honeymoon phase of their relationship - and nods affirmatively. The only person not pleased about this turn of events is Michael, who looks sour and leaves the room. Calum sighs and says, “Aaaand one day he’ll remove the stick from his ass.”  
  
“You two could at least try to be civil,” Ashton points out. Calum just shakes his head.  
  
“Okay, but back to me: I got invited to, like, an actual party by a guy I really like. What do I do?” Luke paces back and forth in his sock feet, feeling dumb. Maybe he shouldn’t go. Maybe it’s some weird hazing thing - don’t people still do that in college sometimes? The logical part of his brain knows he’s being ridiculous. His social anxiety is coming back at full force, though, and he needs reassurance because he is sure he’s going to humiliate himself. Zayn is a really cool guy. He tries on, like, five different shirt-pants combinations before he finally resolves to steal some of Calum’s clothes and ends up wearing a flannel over his favorite t-shirt. Mostly to cover up his embarrassing-ness, but also as a kind of litmus test. If Zayn comments positively on his Captain America shirt, then he’ll continue pursuing… whatever this is. If anything else, he’ll go back to the drawing board. It’s a foolproof plan, right?  
  
When he’s getting ready to leave, Michael’s sitting at the top of the stairs, just watching him. “You look like a douchebag,” Michael tells him.  
  
“It’s my new thing,” he says deadpan. “I figured it would come across a little better than soul-sucking homewrecker, you know?” And before either of them can say anything that would start another pissing match, he takes his keys and leaves.  
  
  
 **-:-:-:-**  
  
It’s sort of unofficial, the whole him moving into Ashton’s room thing. They never have a formal talk about it, or anything; he just notices one morning that most of his stuff is there and that they’re at That Point in the relationship. Ashton is making his normal grimace about putting his contacts in and he’s scrolling through Twitter to see if there’s anything interesting happening. “God,” he says fondly, glancing over at his boyfriend. “We are so fucking domestic it’s sickening.”  
  
“Yeah.” Ashton leans over and nips his shoulder.  
  
It would be easy to say that he’s relaxed into this whole thing - this boyfriends thing they have going - but he still violently feels the butterflies in his stomach every time. He holds onto Ashton’s hand, marvels at the easy way their fingers link together, and flops back on the mattress. “I love you, you know,” he says, testing the heavy way the words feel on his tongue. Serious. Important. He’s not quite sure why he says it - but there it is, hanging in the air - and he wants to curl in on himself for saying it so soon.  
  
“I know,” Ashton tells him. Before he can find out if Ashton was about to say it back or not, Luke bursts into the room and launches himself onto the bed. He’s not sure if he can properly call it their bed, yet. “Well, good morning to you, sunshine,” Ashton teases.  
  
“Guys. Guysguysguys. I have a date,” Luke says proudly. “With Zayn.”  
  
And Calum had gotten the distinct impression that the night at the party hadn’t gone well, so what the fuck? He knows he’s being a shitty friend for not being happy for Luke. It’s just… they seem so wrong for each other, somehow. Zayn is the type of super hipster guy who smokes a bowl before every lecture and eats, like, quinoa chips and everything. He has a cool leather jacket, okay, but Calum’s always pictured Luke with someone much more… Michael. Okay, he pictures his best friend dating Michael. If they would set their petty differences aside they would probably get along really well.  
  
“Wow,” he says faintly. Ashton gives him a look - because Ashton’s the type of guy to instinctually pick up on his reactions - and squeezes his hand.  
  
“Can you believe it?” Luke says. He looks positively giddy.  
  
Ashton gives Calum a dirty look and says, “Forgive Calum, he’s grumpy this morning. We’re happy for you!” Ugh. He can’t even be mad about it. If Luke doesn’t want to be with his soul mate, no one can really force him to. And admittedly they did have kind of a rough start. Maybe their personalities really aren’t compatible. Luke digs through the clean pile of laundry, most likely looking for more clothes to steal, and Ashton goes, “Hey, stop stealing my clothes! That’s only okay when Calum does it. Dick.”  
  
Luke gives both of them a dirty look and mutters, “Why can’t anyone in this house be happy for me,” and wanders off.  
  
Much to Calum’s display, Ashton doesn’t treat him any differently. He spends the rest of the day wondering if Ashton is trying to find a way to let him down easy or something. And god, he hopes not. At the end of the night, when he’s just gotten back from shooting a gig and he’s trying to stumble into bed, exhausted, Ashton looks at him sleepily and goes, “Oh, about earlier.” Calum’s heart leaps into his throat.  
  
“Yeah?” Play it cool. He’s playing it cool. He’s not having heart palpitations or anything. He stares fixedly at Ashton’s bare shoulder.  
  
“I was going to say, I love you too. Also, that was supposed to be a Star Wars reference which you clearly didn’t get.”  
  
“Well, that’s just… ridiculous,” he tries to argue. Hard to argue, though, when he’s being pulled down into bed and Ashton is warm and sleepy and basically, like, his favorite version of Ashton ever. He’s too bone-tired to contemplate anything other than cuddling and falling asleep; he’s been awake for too long.  
  
  
 **00:00:00:00**  
  
“I’m not mad,” Michael says to Dr. Feldmann. “I’m not mad! I just feel like I am being left behind, you know, because everyone else is moving on with their lives and I feel like I’m… stuck.” He fidgets uncomfortably in his seat. They’ve abandoned aversion therapy as a thing, though, since he felt like it was too close to self-harming. Feldy always makes him feel sort of naked - and somehow during their sessions he always ends up admitting things he’d rather never think about.  
  
“Find a hobby. Preferably something that involves other people.”  
  
Michael scowls at his therapist. “So what you’re telling me is I need to join, like, a quilting circle or something. ‘Hey, ladies, I’m just here to… quilt some things, ignore the fact that I’m nineteen and have no life.’”  
  
“I meant with people your own age. Don’t be melodramatic.”  
  
“Uh, my hobbies aren’t exactly things you can do with other people. Plus I go to Ashton’s band’s gigs! That totally counts as interacting with other people.” He’s always careful to refer to it as Ashton’s band, because they are best friends - and not Luke’s band, even though he is the singer or whatever, because he hates Luke. He has no feelings whatsoever towards Luke.  
  
Feldy gives him a deeply disbelieving look. “Okay, dropping the whole therapist thing for a minute, it doesn’t count as interacting with people if you sit at the back the whole time and pretend you’re not pining over Luke. You don’t go because you want to be around other people. Also you’re incredibly bitter about Luke dating someone else when you’ve made it… abundantly clear, shall we say, that you don’t want to date him. Except you do.”  
  
“I don’t want to date Luke,” he says automatically.  
  
“Just find a hobby, Michael,” Feldy says with a long-suffering sigh.  
  
He grumbles, “There’s nothing I want to do though.” He’s resentful that Dr. Feldmann thinks he has a thing for Luke. He definitely doesn’t. “And don’t read into that. There’s nothing to read into.” They’ve reached an impasse. For the rest of the session he refuses to talk. He’s resentful that Dr. Feldmann thinks he has some kind of weird repressed thing for Luke. They make another appointment for next week and he takes the bus home still feeling weirdly resentful.  
  
It’s slow, but he is making progress.  
  
Today he doesn’t take a shower when he gets home. When he first started this whole therapy thing he needed to be in the shower for at least thirty minutes before the feelings of panic subsided. Now he flops down on the couch, face first, and groans into a throw pillow. “This is balls,” he groans.  
  
“What’s your problem?” Luke asks, standing in the doorway to his bedroom. Michael doesn’t think about how long his legs are. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that Luke’s getting ready for a stupid date. “Not that I care what’s wrong with you, I just wish you’d stop making noise. It’s distracting.”  
  
He’s in a vulnerable place. He feels hollowed out from his therapy session. “Yeah, well… You’re distracting,” he retorts. And, immediately, he feels like the stupidest person in the world. “I didn’t mean that… how it sounded.”  
  
Luke rolls his eyes. “Can you, like, go somewhere else for the night,” he says, and it’s not a question. “I have plans.” It doesn’t exactly take a genius to figure out what he’s implying. Michael feels vaguely nauseous. He looks at Luke wearing those tight fuck-me jeans and a wave of intense jealousy sweeps over him.  
  
“How nice for you,” he says.  
  
On second thought, he’s going to need that shower. It’s secondary that spending an hour in the shower inconveniences Luke. He sings along to the 8tracks playlist on his phone loudly and obnoxiously and ignores Luke pounding on the door. Sometimes it feels kind of good to be a dick. When the hot water runs out, he finally steps out of the shower and dries himself off. He leaves his dirty clothes in a pile on the floor and wraps the towel around his waist.  
  
And Luke looks absolutely furious. Michael revels in it. Luke gets this pinched little frown on his face. “You,” he says through gritted teeth, “are the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.” How hard he must be trying to rein in his temper; his fists are at his sides and his pupils are totally dilated. A totally inappropriate thought pops into Michael’s head just then - this is probably how he’d look if they fucked. Which, wow. Bad time to be thinking about that.  
  
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says sarcastically. “Did you need in the bathroom? I had no idea.”  
  
“Are you trying to ruin my life?” Luke’s mouth looks so pretty when he’s angry. Like, Michael enjoys the idea of sabotaging this date for him. It has nothing to do with him just being in a towel and Luke looking all pissed off and those jeans. He’s a little bit stuck on the jeans. If they sat any lower on his hips then he might as well just put his cock on display.  
  
“Maybe I am.” The problem is, Luke’s blocking his exit path. Okay. He can deal with this. “So are you going to move, or…?”  
  
Luke’s gone into ultimate bitch mode. “Look,” he says, taking a step closer to Michael. “I have a date tonight and I’m going to lose my virginity to a really hot guy tonight, so don’t fuck this up for me.”  
  
Well, Luke is about as intimidating as a puppy dog. Michael stands up straighter. “I really don’t care, though.” He enjoys the prissy little scowl on Luke’s face. Two can play at this game, he thinks, and so he takes a step closer too. He’s part expecting Luke to back up. Luke’s usually so… not quite timid, but something akin to that. So he continues, “You have this idea that I care what you do and I’m sitting here all butthurt that you don’t like me. I don’t care, Luke Hemmings. I’ve got my own shit to deal with and I don’t need you fucking it all up for me.”  
  
“Or maybe your problem is that you need to get fucked,” Luke exhales. It would be nice if Luke wouldn’t stand so close to him, thanks, he’s quite alright with continuing this argument from across the room. Or the country. But Luke moves closer to him, crowding him up against the sink. Yeah, wow, alright. They’re so close now that he can smell Luke’s cologne; all he can do is squirm uncomfortably. He’s not going to back down first.  
  
He smirks and goes, “Who knew you had such a mean streak, Lukey?”  
  
For half a second, he thinks he’s going to take a punch right to the jaw. Luke’s muscles ripple and instead he grips onto the sides of the sink tightly. Oh, no. This is not okay. “What the fuck is your problem with me?” For once, Michael doesn’t have a good answer for that. He feels like he can’t breathe; they’re standing too close and his heart is pounding and he’s just weirdly furious.  
  
“You,” he says. “You’re the goddamn problem.”  
  
He’s expecting another comeback, and it never comes. Luke’s absolutely livid with him. “Why does it always come back to you,” Luke says quietly. And this is the part where the world goes quiet, waiting for the punch that never comes. Without realizing it Michael closes his eyes. He’s slipping - he’s distracted, Luke’s so close - and then the world falls apart.  
  
Their mouths collide with a ferocity completely unmatched by anything he’s ever experienced. He really expected the lip ring to be cold, though. None of this is what he’d expected. It all feels like it’s happening in stop-motion animation: Luke’s hands on his sides, his arm around Luke’s neck, the broken little sound that spills over from his throat when Luke nips meanly at his bottom lip. He returns the favor two-fold by sucking Luke’s lip ring into his mouth and tightening the fingers in his hair roughly. There’s a crash as something gets knocked over, but he can’t bring himself to care at the moment. This - this thing, whatever it is - goes on for what seems like forever.  
  
Fate - or karma, or whatever - intervenes by virtue of someone knocking on the door. “Fuck,” Luke says. “Fuck!” He runs his hands through his hair and stalks off angrily.  
  
Michael turns to stare at his reflection and wonders what the fuck just happened.  
  
  
 **-:-:-:-**  
  
The atmosphere in the house has been strained for the last week or two. Calum doesn’t know exactly what happened - and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know - but Michael and Luke have been at each other’s throats constantly. “I don’t understand it,” he tells Ashton one day. “How can they both be so stupid?”  
  
“Don’t ask me. Although if you did ask me, I’d say they should just fuck and get it over with.” They’ve got another gig that night at the student pub, so instead of making out with Ashton - which is what he wants to do, like, all the time - they’re getting ready to leave. Ashton’s going through this really stupid bandana phase again, which is grossly endearing to him. He’s avoiding going downstairs until the very last minute; Luke is stalking around down there angrily and aggressively ignoring Michael, so. At least once they get to the pub Zayn will be there to distract Luke - a fact for which he is forever grateful. He hasn’t seen much of Zayn lately, actually. Probably because they’ve all been busy with finals. Except for him, obviously, but he’s been busy as hell too ever since he started getting more work doing photography. Sometimes he doesn’t get done until three or four in the morning, and then he’ll be up early the next day editing and retouching his work from the night before so he doesn’t get backlogged.  
  
Michael storms into the room, clearly pissed off. “I’m not coming tonight,” he bitches.  
  
And Luke’s hot on his heels. “Michael, no one cares if you come or not. Go hang out with your weird friends and leave us alone. Tell him he’s not allowed to come tonight; Zayn’s coming and I don’t want him ruining everything like he always does.”  
  
They glare at each other until Michael swears, loudly and inventively, and goes to his room and slams the door. “If you’re ready to go,” Ashton says slowly, like he’s speaking to a small child, “Put your shoes on and let’s go. I’m not dealing with you two fighting tonight.”  
  
Calum can tell he’s losing his patience with the whole thing. “Babe,” he says, leaning into Ashton’s side and mouthing his neck sloppily, “Chill. It will all be fine.”  
  
“You take advantage of me,” Ashton tells him, although he does soften at the gesture.  
  
They all three pile into Luke’s car - which is altogether too small for them now that they’ve got better instruments - and make the half hour drive across to campus. Luke’s still absolutely fuming; he sits sulkily and texts Zayn the whole time they’re supposed to be loading in. Not that Calum’s, like, waiting with bated breath to see how that whole thing plays out. He goes to the bathroom before they’re set to go on stage - empty the tank and all that - and someone’s banging in the stall. He doesn’t really care that much; he squares his shoulders and uses the urinal instead. He washes his hands after, pulls a face at himself in the mirror. And he pretends not to notice or react when Zayn slinks out of the stall with someone who is decidedly not Luke.  
  
Once the door swings shut behind them, he tips his head back and asks the ceiling, “Why me? Why is it always me?” This, to be short about it, is going to fucking suck.  
  
It makes him jittery through their entire set, scanning the crowd to see if Zayn’s still with the other guy. The crowd likes them well enough - it’s just that he can feel the implosion coming from a mile away. Also, he can’t in good conscience let his best friend be cheated upon. That’s not how their friendship works. He thinks - although he can’t be sure in the dim lighting - that he sees Michael’s deeply purple hair at the back, but he quickly forgets about it as they’re packing up to leave.  
  
He takes Ashton by the wrist, once they’ve loaded the car, and says “I need to talk to you.” And he had resolved to talk to Ashton about it - moral compass and all - but Ashton clearly has other ideas, and instead of talking about it they end up making out against the car for fifteen minutes while Luke finishes up his whatever with Zayn. Maybe it’s none of his business. Maybe they need to get home so he can have Ashton’s hands all over him.  
  
  
 **/VOID/**  
  
Ashton’s the only person home when Luke finds out. Michael’s at therapy and Calum is shooting engagement photos for someone. He’s taking advantage of the quiet to catch up on some reading, so he’s not expecting it when Luke explodes into the house in a fury. “I hate everything,” Luke moans. “Everything suuuuuuucks.” He looks more disheveled than usual. He kicks the wall angrily and storms off to his room and slams the door.  
  
“I’m guessing you found out about Zayn,” he says quietly to himself.  
  
The only thing that answers him is Luke’s stereo blaring so loudly it makes his ears ring. Well, that’s going to turn out great.  
  
  
 **00:00:00:00**  
  
He lies in bed for three or four days.  
  
How could he have been so stupid? How could he have thought he was special at all? If he never leaves his room again, another humiliating thing can’t happen like this. Ashton and Calum both have come in to check on him and prod him for signs of life; Calum, at least, brought him a cheese toastie and a hug. He keeps telling them that he’s fine and he doesn’t want to talk about it. Emotionally, he feels pretty fucked up. The only person who is actually listening to his requests, ironically enough, to leave him alone is Michael. Which is good - Michael is the last person he needs to see right at this moment. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth to think about, so he’s avoiding it until he starts feeling like he can breathe again. He listens to sad music. He watches sad movies. He feels utterly stupid; how could he have thought Zayn was serious about him when he knew right from the start that he was just a bit of action on the side?  
  
At least he didn’t end up losing his virginity to Zayn. Although that had less to do with Zayn - who wanted to, all the way - and more to do with him having a weird mental block and freaking out and hyperventilating about it. That was the same night he kissed Michael. Which was a mistake.  
  
(Which is something he thinks about doing again until he catches himself thinking about it. It’s a complicated thought process. He doesn’t want to kiss Michael.)  
  
Finally, on the fifth day, there’s a hesitant knock on his door in the afternoon. He’s buried underneath all the covers, wishing that there were a way to turn off the sun. “If you don’t answer me I’m coming in anyway,” Michael says, and opens the door. Luke groans and burrows further into his blanket nest.  
  
“Go away,” he hisses. The springs in his mattress creak as Michael sits down on the edge of the bed. “I said go away,” he repeats.  
  
“Yeah, don’t really care what you want right now,” Michael tells him. Luke decides that if he ignores Michael for long enough, he’ll go away on his own. Instead Michael starts going through his CD collection. He makes a pained noise and rolls over to face the wall and pulls a pillow over his head. This is the worst thing. “Seriously, you’re not even going to fight me on this? I’m in your room. I’m touching your stuff. At least yell at me or something or I’ll have to assume you’ve been body snatched.”  
  
“Can you please just go away and leave me alone? I really don’t need you prancing around and, like, fucking gloating over this.” Being angry requires too much energy.  
  
Michael finally leaves him alone a little while later, muttering something Luke doesn’t quite catch under his breath.  
  
Later, he’s angry about it. When he’s ready to leave his room - and take a shower, jesus christ - Michael’s sitting on the couch in his underwear playing some stupid video game. “Don’t you ever do something that involves leaving this house?” he snaps.  
  
“At least I’m not getting totally emo over some dude,” Michael snaps back at him.  
  
“Well, whatever, anyone would be better than you.”  
  
Michael looks at him with this completely disastrous look. Disastrous in the sense that Luke is feeling a certain… sense of deja vu about the whole situation. In a low voice, Michael goes, “Was that a challenge or a fact?” Luke doesn’t look at his shoulders. Luke isn’t thinking about how easy it would be. To, like, use his body weight to pin Michael down and fucking show him exactly what he’s missing out on. It would be so easy - he’s not so much bigger, but big enough - just to hold him there and prove a goddamn point. Fuck, he’s so angry.  
  
He licks his lips without meaning to. “God, you’re so fucking arrogant,” he says.  
  
He doesn’t intend to. He huffs and walks away. He doesn’t intend to do any of this. In the shower he tries to calm himself down - it’s just, Michael makes him so angry. Even with the cold water on he can’t rein in his emotions; part of him is angry, because he feels like he was tricked into liking Zayn and he failed at that. Part of him is frustrated with his inability to exercise self-control, particularly when it comes to anything involving Michael. And yet another part of him… Well, let’s not go there. Because he doesn’t want to admit that the attraction is there. He scrubs half-heartedly at his counter marks, though he knows they’ll never fully go away, just fade. He doesn’t think about the matching ones on Michael’s wrist. It’s not really failed potential if they were never compatible, right?  
  
“Put some fucking clothes on,” Michael tells him when he goes back to his room after the fruitless shower.  
  
“Stop looking at me, then,” he retorts. Not his best. The whole time he’s getting dressed Michael stands in his doorway like an asshole. Once he’s got pants on, at least, he goes, “Do you mind?”  
  
He’s definitely not thinking about it, now. “What, am I in your personal space now?” Michael shoves him roughly, and he pushes back. It’s kind of a mess of knees and elbows as they scrabble; Luke’s just annoyed now. They pinch and push at each other until he’s on his back on the mattress. That won’t do, though - he uses his whole body weight to flip over and take control of the situation. He’s not thinking. It’s like his entire brain turned off and all he can do is this.  
  
“I’m so tired of you,” he growls.  
  
Michael reaches to grab him - but he moves faster, pins Michael’s wrists with his hands. “Yeah, you seem really fucking tired of me right now.”  
  
(This is definitely not going to a bad place. Luke has self-control. He’s not thinking about, like, shutting Michael up with his mouth or sucking a bruise onto his collarbone. This needs to stop.) “God, you’re so mouthy,” he complains. “You never shut up.”  
  
“Well, maybe you should make me then.”  
  
Luke shoves his mouth against Michael’s before he can say something else snarky. And, god. He doesn’t know which gets to him more: the soft ‘mphf’ that gets caught in his throat or the way Michael goes totally slack under him. It starts out rough and desperate - he has to move his arm to support himself, so Michael’s hand curls around the back of his neck. He doesn’t know what he’s doing this for. He just needs. They go like that, kissing messily and pulling at each other, until he has to come up for air. His lips feel bruised. “Oh no,” he says, mostly to himself. “Not again. Why is this happening - oh.” And his voice cracks because - oh, there’s Michael’s mouth on his neck, and he doesn’t move away. He can’t remember why he thought they should stop this.  
  
“You need to stop talking now,” Michael says, and he allows himself to get pushed onto his side. There’s a graze of teeth against flesh which makes him gasp, and again so much that the only thing he thinks to do is grab Michael and kiss him some more, because if they stop this then he’ll start thinking again and maybe he’ll realize how stupid this is. And, well, he’s starting to feel some kind of way inside his jeans; it’s all happening and he doesn’t want it to stop and he can’t, really, because what else is there?  
  
He pulls away. “We should stop,” he points out. “This is weird.” They’re a weird tangle of limbs; he catches his breath.  
  
“Yeah, no.”  
  
“What,” he says against Michael’s mouth. There’s so much of their skin touching, though. It didn’t feel this way with Zayn. This feels like a bit like setting a forest fire as opposed to striking a match.  
  
Michael says, “God, just don’t.”  
  
Something breaks inside of him and he pushes away. “You’re such an asshole.” He doesn’t know if he’s embarrassed, exactly, but he’s certainly confused and kind of turned on. It doesn’t help him that Michael looks thoroughly debauched, mouth swollen, and his fucking eyes. They’re really doing this, then.  
  
“Fine then,” Michael says, and leaves him to it. He at least has the decency to shut the door behind him so Luke can have the most confused wank in history in privacy. (He doesn’t think about it. Michael’s wrists under his hands. The way his neck feels bruised, sort of, and hands on his hips and in his hair and, like, everywhere. This is awful. He feels completely ruined about it.)  
  
  
 **00:00:00:00**  
  
Actually, Michael doesn’t talk to Luke for almost a week. He’s been thinking about something Dr. Feldmann said in his last session, so he’s been kind of doing his own thing while he figures it out. The compulsions are nagging at the back of his head - he catches himself washing his hands a lot - and it’s killing him, the weight of his feelings. He does his normal thing.  
  
He asks Ashton about it. And of course Calum, by default. “Did you guys ever do that thing in school,” he says, “where you liked someone but you couldn’t put it into words so you kind of antagonized them?”  
  
Calum says, “If this is about Luke, then you are an idiot and I want to hit you sometimes for being so stupid.” Alex makes fun of him for, like, a solid day. But he’s the only one to tell, because he’s not about to go around telling the people he lives with ‘Hey, so I kind of made out with Luke and now I’m having feelings about it and, ugh, terrible.’  
  
The next time he sees Luke, it’s the weekend and so everyone else is out.  
  
“Hey,” he says. It’s stupid that he is nervous. He wants to take, like, five showers all of a sudden. Luke gives him an odd look.  
  
“Hi,” Luke says back. He shifts his weight back and forth on the balls of his feet, hands in his pockets. “What?”  
  
Michael had rehearsed, in his head, what he planned to say. Of course he doesn’t manage to say it right. “So you’re kind of a dick,” he says. He wishes, not for the first time, that he could sink into the floor. “No, that came out wrong. You’re a complete asshole.”  
  
“Uh… Okay?”  
  
They’re both being so careful to keep at a safe distance. “I’m sorry, I’m not good at… this,” he says helplessly. “I’m going to start over.”  
  
Luke eyes him suspiciously, but sits down on the opposite end of the couch from him anyway. “Did you hit your head or something?”  
  
He tries again. “Okay, look, you’re a massive cock and I hate that about you, and I hate that I can’t hate you, and I can’t stay away from you either and I definitely want more… of that thing that happened,” he finishes. “So. I am sorry I was a jerk, okay, I was working through some things and, like, I’m still a massive douchebag.”  
  
“… Yes you are. You’re the absolute worst,” Luke says, although there’s this look about him that says he doesn’t totally mean it. Michael hopes, anyway. He’s trying to do this whole heartfelt confession thing, and totally fucking it up, and to be honest he’s scared shitless that he’s got it all wrong.  
  
“Oh my god, this is so dumb. Why is this so hard to say,” he sighs.  
  
Luke just looks at him in this way, and goes, “I think I know what you’re trying to say.” And he holds his breath, because it’s early in the afternoon and he’s so nervous his hands are starting to shake, and Luke is just looking at him and he’s looking back and it’s this strange quiet between them. “I just,” Luke says. He breaches the space between them quickly and this time he’s so, so careful about it - presses their lips together and holds onto Michael until they’re both certain of it.  
  
When they pull away Michael goes, “We’re going to fuck this up, aren’t we,” and Luke laughs into his mouth. He likes Luke’s lip ring, and his smile.  
  
“Probably,” Luke agrees.  
  
This time they’re both greedy about it. He tugs Luke until they’re arranged to his liking - him with his feet hanging over the edge of the couch and Luke on top of him - and he just sort of lies there, for a minute. “I like this,” he decides. “This is good.”  
  
“Can we start over then?”  
  
He’s in kind of an agreeable mood, now, so he nods. “Okay, yeah,” he says.  
  
“Okay. Um, I’m Luke and I like sleeping and blink-182,” Luke tells him. “Pretty sure we’re supposed to be soul mates, yeah?”  
  
Michael agrees with this statement finally, almost a year after it’s supposed to have happened. “Yeah,” he says, “but I’m still pretty sure we’ll fuck it up. I’m pretty stupid, see, so don’t expect me to be, like, fantastic at all this. But yeah, soul mates I guess.”  
  
Luke kind of rolls his eyes and just, “Would you stop getting sappy already.”  
  
“I’m just saying, it was kind of inevitable.”

“You’re kind of annoying,” Luke says, and kisses him again. He could really get used to that part, anyway. At least now he knows that it’s on their terms, and not just because they’re supposed to or whatever. He likes the sounds that Luke makes almost as much as he likes Luke’s singing. It seems kind of fitting, now that they’re this, that he has the scars to show for all of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, thanks for reading this, I guess. Tell me what you liked in a comment or something, whatever, or my ask box on tumblr. I like human interaction.


End file.
